Uplifted: Revolution
by DarkDanny
Summary: Definitive Edition: Millions are being shipped to extermination camps across Europe, the Allied bombing raids are increasing, the Sixth Army in Stalingrad is on the verge of collapse and the Anglo-American invasion of Algeria will become a reality soon. The insanity that is the Third Reich is beginning to show. But little does anyone know that revolution is in the air.
1. The Revolt Of The Afrika Korps

**Chapter One: The Revolt of the Afrika Korps**

 **...**

 **"TAKE COVER!"**

The whistling of mortar fire forced the Englishman known as David Stirling to duck his head and dive for cover underneath a dead Lorrie. It was hard to believe that he had found himself in this situation. Malta, a fortress island that had stood for so long under British dominance, was on the verge of collapse.

Incomprehensible was not a word to describe how Stirling felt. To think that it was only three weeks to find him in this situation.

Malta, unlike what many had thought, was done very carefully. The landing was not like Crete. It was done with a significant more subterfuge on the part of the Axis. Gozo and Comino Islands had fallen in the first three days to a surprise landing made by Italian parachutists from the Folgore brigade. They captured the docks of Sennant and Xlendi. It wasn't long before the first Kreigsmarine and Regia Marina barges and transports arrived from the built up forces in Libya and Egypt. Before they knew it, tens of thousands of Germans and Italians had invaded the northern islands. The resistance against the attack was mostly token, the build-up and defence was devoted to the main island.

At first he and the rest of the garrison command wasn't sure what the hell the Germans and Italians had to gain from taking a strategically unimportant section. That was when they spotted him, Erwin Rommel landed on Gozo, surrounded by his fellow commanders including one of which that was an unwelcoming sight.

It was Josef ' _Step_ ' Dietrich, the infamous head of the 1st SS Panzer Division Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler.

His presence meant only one thing. Rommel had taken the poison pill and accepted the political army of the Reich into his theatre. Well it did not matter, according the heads in England. Malta was to be defended at all cost. Malta was the last stronghold tying Germany and Italy up from mounting their campaign across the Suez Canal.

But that had been a week ago. Rommel and his men had dug into the island and simply sat there and waited. For two weeks they waited, built up large attacking force and instead of doing what Rommel did best: Attacking, they instead sat there and waited. No one was sure way they had done so. Perhaps to strain the nerves back home, make the defenders overconfident that Malta was impenetrable to anything the great Desert Fox could throw at them.

Then it happened.

A roar erupted over the island fortress one night at midnight, a strange electrical disturbance. One moment he was sitting under a light writing a letter home, the next the light bulb was dead, as was every single device that required electricity to work; and he meant everything: light bulbs, wiring, radio transmitters, radar towers, and engines in the tanks, jeeps, lorries and aircraft... It was all completely fried and no one had a bloody clue how such a queer occurrence could happen, and yet just across the short ferry ride to Gozo, everything the Germans had worked still.

The naval, artillery bombardments and aerial bombing commenced unopposed to the blinded garrison, but everyone held on, they did their best to fight blind with zero air cover. By morning, most of the garrison's heavy weaponry had been smashed and the first of the invasion barges and captured ferries approached.

It would be five days of heavy fighting before David Stirling, the last of his SAS regiment, four battered Malta brigades and a handful of scattered royal marine units took refuge in the last bastion of defence on the Maltese island, Fort St. Angelo, bringing livestock to tow in what remained of the British Artillery and munitions that they could salvage from the encroaching Afrika Korps. It was almost as though they had returned to the days of medieval Europe. It wasn't long after that, that the frightened people of Malta tried to seek sanctuary. The best that Stirling could do was to hide them in the Church and just under the fortress in sewers. There he left a platoon of local militia and several marines to keep that tunnel safe.

Pulling himself up from his cover at the renewed light mortar fire, Stirling grabbed his Bren gun and headed back the winding stairs to the top of the great walls where the rest of his men stood guard, shooting at everyone they could see.

"Sir, armoured cars are on the approach!" a marine called to him from the watch tower. "We got a StuG Self-Propelled gun a few hundred meters behind them and moving fast on us!"

"Get that six pounder up to the opening in the front wall!" Stirling commanded right away as he ducked a renewed Machine gun fire that chipped away at the walls they hid behind. "We'll see if we can lure them."

Several of the soldiers obliged the Colonel. Another Maltese corporal dropped down beside him, his eyes wide, his face covered in grim.

"I can count five, maybe six MG-42 nests set up in the adjacent buildings! My squad tried dislodging them-"

The screaming wail of a Stuka dive bomber blared overhead. Above them was a pair of them, aiming at the courtyard of the vast fortress and at the walls defending against the attacks. Stirling and the rest of his men scrambled to get out of the way as the two ground attack fighters hit their positions with cannon fire. Several of the defender was torn to pieces by the heavy round meant to kill tanks, not infantry.

The four 40mm Bofors guns targeted at the Stukas, tearing apart one of the planes and scaring off the other. It gave Stirling a moment to roll over and push the torso off his arm and got back up onto his feet. Coughing, he listened to the moans of several of the Malta militia, wounded terribly. Gripping his side, the Colonel turned away.

"Get a medic out here," he commanded. "The rest of you back into positions!"

 _ **"BERSALIERI!"**_

There were few Italian military units that gave Stirling pause. The Bersalieri were one of those rare units. Amidst the mediocrity that was the Italian Royal Army stood quite possibly the most impressive and flamboyant group of fighter's Stirling had fought coming from south of Germany. They didn't back down, they didn't retreat. They pressed the attack or stood their ground until they were relieved.

Stirling bolted towards the private who made the claim and looked over the side of the wall. Sure enough there were men clad in black uniforms, wide brim sandy helmets with trailing cock feathers planted into the side. He would have thought they looked queer had he not known that appearances were deceptive.

Carcano and Beretta fire erupted around their position, catching several of his men. Stirling responded back with his Bren, along with the rest of the western walls defenders. It was enough fire to kill several of them, but it wasn't enough to slow them down. Before they knew it, the Italians had reached the wall and were hurling hand grenade over the fortress walls in a means to supreme the English.

An explosion rocketed against the side of the wall, shaking where Stirling stood to fight. He looked over and saw the casemate StuG taking pot shots at front of the fortress in an attempt to crack the defences. The assault gun was hit twice in quick succession by the six pounder anti-tank gun. It shrugged off the first blow, the second hit was much more devastating, smashing the vehicles track off, thereby immobilizing the gun on tracks.

Just as a third shot was to be taken, a platoon of Afrika Korps appeared from around the cover of the buildings surrounding the Fortress, firing and killing the three men AT crew. They surrounded the tank and forced the English defenders to duck while they evacuated the crew and retreated back to their cover under protection of the MG-42 gun nests providing cover.

Suddenly the wall underneath Stirling exploded inwards where the Bersalieri had been. Stirling could only assume that they had been carrying some sort of shaped charges. It was only a matter of moments before through the smoke came two dozen screaming Italians, laying fire on the anti-aircraft guns and killing the crews before turning back to fight the men on the wall.

Slamming in a fresh magazine, Stirling and his men unloaded on the Italians, who dove for cover as they shot in every direction. With fire coming from inside the perimeter, the English defenders were now ensnared on both sides. Shooting down two of the elite soldiers, Stirling primed a hand grenade and hit the group with the deafening explosion.

It worked, but not in the way that Stirling and the defenders wanted it to do. The Italians pulled out of the courtyard but had bolted inside the nearest doors inside of the Fortress and had simply vanished. Stirling narrowed his eyes and glanced back to his men. On one hand they had infiltrated the last bastion of defence. On the other hand, he could not let anymore Jerries or Italians through the defences. He had to move a Vickers machine gun to where the Bersalieri had attack, further stretching out his defences.

 **"JESUS CHRIST, THREE TIGERS APPROACHING!"**

Any focus he had on the small group of soldiers who broke through was gone. They had to stop those god forsaken behemoths.

"Mackenzie, take a squad and find them! Eriksson, you and your chaps get down there on the Bofors. They're the only thing keeping the Luftwaffe from shoving a pineapple up our asses!" Stirling laid down the new orders as he reloaded his Bren with the last few magazines he had left. "The rest of you, find anything bigger than a rifle get back to work! We have to stop those tanks!"

God help him, he should have personally chased those Italians...

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

 _"Crazy, godforsaken Germans, why is it when we tell them that an assault on this place would be too costly to do, they go ahead and do it anyways; eight good men dead to open a single fucking door."_

Sottotenente Luca Calabrese ignored Carporal Amoretto's grumblings and winced slightly as the much taller, mensur scarred Austrian stamped past the Italians gathered around. He dropped his helmet and pulled on his brimmed forage cap, his strange rifle, more exotic than Luca had ever seen before raised and ready to fight as he pressed on. Luca turned back to his men and waved them to follow their German commander.

The giant paused and turned back to the footsteps approaching. He dug into his harness and pulled out what looked like an unarmed S-mine. The man bent down and laid the mine near the edge of the corridor. He tugged a line from his belt, attaching it to firing pin. He carefully rolled it along to the other side of the hallway.

"Hauptsturmführer?" The Sottotenente wondered as the SS captain stood back up from his place.

Otto Skorzeny grinned grimly at the Italian.

"We're being followed, I'm handling them," He simply informed them. "Keep going, we have a deadline to hit and no time to deal with a fire fight."

Luca stood there briefly before following Skorzeny down the pathway. It was one thing to plant a minefield, it was quite another to set up a booby trap. The Sottotenente could not help but think this Austrian to be quite possibly the biggest bastard he had ever met.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

The Afrika Korps were certainly annoyed. It did not matter. Those desert dogs could barely keep these Englishmen pinned.

They had come up with a plan they had annexed the local city archives and discovered an old line of sewers running underneath the old fortress that the English had garrisoned. First one to the seen, Sepp Dietrich had overruled the Afrika Korps Major and handed command to the subterranean raid to him, Untersturmführer Otto Günsche, leading a twenty man assault team consisting of flamethrowers and the newly issued STG-43. The weapons were beautiful, the envy of the Afrika Korps.

As they made the approach, it did not take long before Bullets smashed the walls of the sewer, forcing Günsche and his team to duck down. The gunshots did not mask the screams of panic. The Lieutenant paid it no mind as he turned to his men, a grenade in his hand only long enough to be thrown around the cover.

"Cover the flamethrowers!" He screamed at the battle group. "Hit them with fire!"

The two flamethrower wielding soldiers glanced to one another; the grenade exploded and bought them a moment to rush the position. Simultaneous they fired, torching every living being within a hundred feet of their nozzles. With the enemy still moving, the men fired again, the screams of the unarmed not halting their burning petrol and tar assault on them. They screamed so violently that Günsche could imagine the fighting men above them could have heard what was occurring just below them.

Ignoring that feeling he got when he did something he probably should not have done, he ordered the rest of his unit to follow the flamethrowers advance. They ignored the screaming and the still moving bodies and continued, up the winding stairs until finally they reached the top levels, the flame throwers hitting each level just to be certain.

The door suddenly flew open, making Günsche and his men to duck and take aim. A white handkerchief stuck out at first and then a man disguised as an Italian stood there. Günsche stood up as Hauptsturmführer Otto Skorzeny standing there, his STG-43 resting on his shoulders.

"It took you long enough…" the Commando muttered. "The Italians went to harass the English, the rest of the Afrika Korps have broken through..."

Skorzeny trailed off as he noticed the unique camouflage and then the runic on their lapels, and finally the smoke of the flamethrower fires burning from where they came from.

"I should have guessed."

Slapping the Hauptsturmführer's shoulder, Günsche lead his unit past the commando and into the courtyard. It was there turn to make the English suffer.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

The battle was lost. The island was on the verge of collapsing. St. Angelo lost the Afrika Korps interest and they moved on, pressing their attack against the rest of the capital. In all, maybe two hundred of the original four hundred survived. Of the fifty SAS men he had, ten were left.

Coughing, David found himself slammed against the wall alongside the rest of his SAS, separated from the regular infantry. Next to them were the civilians, panicked and frightened all of them begging their captures for clemency; Clemency that just wasn't coming.

"Herr Eichmann," he heard one of the Germans address, who he supposed was the commander. "The fort is clean, no one else to bring to you."

"Good, Günsche, Take the regular infantry prisoners back to the rest of the Korps. I have reports of resistance in the southern regions of the islands. Link up with your division; we'll handle it from here."

Nodding, the SS platoon escorted the marines and the Maltese soldiers back to the prisoner rally point, leaving Eichmann with a dozen SS men and twenty or so Afrika Korps men watching the scene unfold after being left to guard what was left St. Angelo Fortress.

As the last of the prisoners cleared the ruins, the man known as Eichmann turned back and approached them.

"I am Obersturmbannführer Adolf Eichmann," the man introduced himself to the group. "I am personal representative of Reichsführer Himmler to this area."

Eichmann strolled up the line of prisoners placed in front of the wall. He stopped in front of the commandos and arched his brow.

"For sake of legality, I am to inform you that as decreed by the Führer under the Commando Order, you are to be executed for your involvement in sabotage against the Reich," he informed the soldiers. He turned to the civilians and added. "The rest of you have been summarily convicted of partisan activity, you will be executed as well."

The civilians screamed out. They could not believe what they had heard, that they were to be murdered for simply for seeking shelter. The feeling of rage burned a hole through Stirling's stomach. Cowards, Nazi _fucking_ cowards.

Although his anger was devoted to the Nazis, his loathing was focused on himself. He should have told the civilians to keep running. He had condemned them.

Stirling turned his head to the Afrika Korps gathered around. They looked unwilling to stop this insanity. They were not the trigger men, the SS were. They wanted nothing, absolutely nothing to do with this.

At least, that was what he thought. A boy stepped forward from his unit. He looked no order than eighteen, his uniform looked clean. He moved past his fellow desert soldiers and most surprisingly did something Stirling had not expected, nor apparently any of the other Germans.

"Herr Obersturmbannführer," the boy informed the SS man. "I cannot allow you to do that."

The boy's words caught the SS off guard. The riflemen looked to one another, Eichmann stood there. His eyes simply stared blankly at the boy who stood there weaponless. Swallowing the dry knot in his throat, Stirling glanced over to the Heer soldiers watching their comrade standing there protecting the condemned. They were glancing to one another and whispering. The leader stood there, simply watching it as he appeared to debate what to do.

The boy's breath suddenly went shallow, as though he was fighting all his training that taught him not to disobey a superior officer's order, even if they weren't in the same service. His eyes darted to his brother, asking for help, for validation that he was not receiving.

"We don't execute prisoners, Herr Hauptmann," he addressed his commander. "It's not how we do things. We especially don't start killing civilians. They did nothing but hide in the monastery from us. That does not warrant a death sentence!"

" _Fuck them_!" One of the Afrika Korps men shouted out _. "The English killed my parents in Kiel; they killed my Grandfather in the Somme."_

"Your Grandfather fought in a war and we are bombing the English as well," the boy tried to reason with the dissenting soldier. "This is on our watch! We're better than allowing completely unjustified murder to occur… aren't we?"

His words made the rest of the Heer soldiers glance to one another, they rung true to them.

"I might shed some tears for the civilians, but the SAS are bastards that deserve what they get! No better than the terrorists in Russia!" another soldier called out, less sure than the first voice.

"They wear a uniform, which makes them prisoners under Geneva Convention guidelines!" the soldier cried out as though he was the lone voice of reason. "Have they been executing their prisoners en mass? I doubt it very much."

Stirling winced; The SAS's hands were certainly not clean. Everything the boy was arguing for… it wasn't something he himself would follow.

"Herr Obersturmbannführer, I'm begging you. This is not right, not right in the slightest," the kid spoke once more to the SS leader. "We don't kill them _simply_ for being an enemy. Surely you understand that!"

Still Eichmann did not appear moved, but the Hauptmann certainly did. He stepped forward, past his men and joined the teenager, his expression hard and resigned that he had just voluntarily stepped in front of a firing line.

"The Gerfeiter is right," the Hauptmann rumbled out to the staring Obersturmbannführer. "Dealing slaughter in the name of your ideology might work for you out in Russia, but it doesn't here. We don't fight this war with the same sort of hate you hold!"

The actions of the Hauptmann were like a dam bursting. More and more the Afrika Korps troops shouted and tried to get their point across, all of them falling into line in front of the English prisoners, even the ones bitter in feelings to the English. All of them protecting meant they had fought not an hour ago with their lives.

Stirling had to fight back the urge to tear up. If the situation had been in reverse, he doubted very much he would have done the same.

Eichmann held up his hand, unmoved by the gesture, but still willing to talk to them. The Heer calmed their collective rage to a simmer.

"May I have a chance to respond to your concerns?" Eichmann requested with an extremely polite tone offered to the angered men.

Glancing back to his men, The Hauptmann nodded his head. Eichmann merely smiled respectfully. He gestured to the original German teen that stood there and turned to one of the SS riflemen.

"Oberscharführer, shoot that man."

The SS rifleman responded by raising his rifle to the boy and blowing a gaping wound through the boy's chest. The boy looked dumbfounded as he crumpled to the ground, behind him, the Afrika Korps men roared out in furious rage. The Hauptmann dropped to his knees and clutched the boy's chest, his jacket pressed into the wound to save him. The rest of the soldiers pushed back, forcing the SS to take good ten or so steps back.

It was too late, much too late. The kid died before his comrades eyes. The Hauptmann's eyes were filled with tears, whether it was due to grief or righteous anger, Stirling could not guess. Closing the boy's eyes and wiping his own, The Hauptmann stood up. Eichmann stood there impassively, his eyes scanning all of the soldiers standing before him.

"His fate is your fate if you do not fall in line," Eichmann warned them all. "You do not answer to some higher power; you do not answer to your Rommel. When I am here, I am the one in charge. The Fuhrer has decreed that commandos and civilians that have purposely resisted are to be shot. If you do not fall in line and follow His will, not only will you pay for disobedience, but so shall your family."

The threats did nothing to pacify the Afrika Korps. All of them were looking for blood.

"You swore an Oath to the Führer, to the party!" Eichmann suddenly shouted at the near revolting desert troops.

That was all it took.

"Oh FUCK the Führer!" One of the men behind the Hauptmann roared out.

Then it happened. The Afrika Korps unit rushed the SS's. Eichmann's men managed to hit one of them with a stray bullet but with so little space between each other the Heer solders hit the SS men hard. Fists were flying as the two factions attacked one another as though it had been a pub brawl between drunk Irish and Scotsmen.

Stirling turned back to his men, all of them looking gleeful at the sight.

"Come on, you lot!" was all he had to say.

Simple words got the exhausted SAS men. They would not kill them all just yet. A fist fight would get the blood pumping.

Stirling dived in hit one of the fleeing SS men. The soldier struck out and hit Stirling in the jaw harder than David had expected. Still the giant shrugged off the attack. Faintly Stirling could tell who this was. It was the one who had shot the boy. David wrapped his hands around the executioner's neck. He looked up and found the Hauptmann of the unit had rushed to his side. He glared slightly at the Englishman as his hands turned to fists, which mashed the SS soldier's face up pretty badly.

 _ **"WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE!"**_

The entire fight froze, the civilians froze. Even men like Eichmann and Stirling froze. Storming through the ruins of the fortress walls was Field Marshal Erwin Rommel, the Desert Fox himself, behind him, several of his Heer adjutants.

His presence brought a great relief to Stirling, as it did to the rest of the prisoners. He would save them all! It was in his nature not to let men like Eichmann get away with things such as this. At least that was what he figured. Regardless, it was amusing to watch his fellow civilian Britons look on Rommel in the same sort of way Churchill had in his address to parliament, with great fanfare.

The leader of the Afrika Korps detachment stood up, the Hauptmann bruising and bloody.

"Herr Generalfeldmarschall! My man, Hegelin stood up against a summary execution; we joined in protesting the execution of these people," the Hauptmann informed his commander. "This pig ordered this idiot to shoot Hegelin for standing up to him."

Turning his eyes from the SS rifleman being gestured to by the captain, Rommel turned his attention to the one known as Adolf Eichmann. He stood there, impassive, as though he had not done a thing wrong in his own twisted morality. The soldier had disobeyed, so Eichmann ordered him put down like a disobedient dog.

Eichmann looked close to speaking, but before he could, Rommel removed his sidearm from its holster and without a moment's hesitation, he simply shot the Obersturmbannführer clean through the throat, causing the SAS men to jump back startled and the civilians cry out.

Eichmann fell to the ground, his eyes wide, his face pale as he clutched his throat, his legs kicking in the air as blood pooled out from his mouth. Rommel did not call for a medic. He stood there, his pistol lowered to his side as he watched the man writhe and twitch. He paid no mind to the impressed look David Stirling had, or the shouts of joy the Afrika Korps troops roared out. He simply stood there watching as the man bled out before his eyes.

Eichmann emitted a low, rasping death rattle, his life leaving his eyes.

Stirling listened to Rommel exhale unsteadily, his first sign of regret. The Desert Fox dropped his pistol near the body of the SS colonel and turned away, pulling his peaked cap off his head and running his hands through his thinning hair.

"I don't think I should have done that..." The Field Marshal mused as though it wasn't obvious.

God save his soul, Stirling could not help himself, he suddenly howled out into a fit of laughter at Rommel's plain spoken reproach. Rommel turned his head to the laughing Englishman and narrowed his eyes, instantly silencing the commando, who felt terrible. It was a terrible time to laugh.

Turning away, Rommel glanced to the shocked SS execution squad and then to his men, adding. "Shoot them as well."

The soldiers obliged, almost causally, the Afrika Korps men gathered their weapons and shot the group of SS men dead where they stood; others gently moved through the crowd and pulled the civilians out of the POW's. To Stirling's amazement, there was no fight to the Afrika Korps actions. They had seen how close to death they could have been in the hands of the SS. To any sane man, the Afrika Korps protecting them was something not to fight.

Exhaling as the civilians left, Stirling stepped forward. He leaned down and collected Rommel's pistol, a fine piece of machinery. He looked back up and found a dozen Karabiner rifles pointing at him and Rommel's eyes solely focused on him. Keeping the pistol at his side, Stirling turned back to his men, their hands in the air.

"I guess I got lucky, grabbed his gun before he could stop me," Stirling spoke as though he was defending himself. "I had to shoot him, Field Marshal. His buddies were next naturally."

There was silence as the ragtag and battle fatigued SAS troopers glanced at one another wearily at the statement offered by their commander. Rommel narrowed his eyes, himself apparently surprised.

"Yeah... you had to do what you had to do... Good shot, sir!" A cheery sounding Scotsmen named McClellan called out to Stirling first. It wasn't long after him that the rest of the unit murmured in agreement that it was clearly Stirling, who gunned down the piece of shit lying at their feet.

Stirling turned properly away from the cheering and back to Rommel, he had ordered his men to lower their rifles. His expression was an odd... it was thoughtful... almost gracious by the gesture his adversary was doing. The taller, bearded Englishman stepped closer to the older man. Silently, he stretched the butt of the Walther out to the Field Marshal, who took it from him.

"There will be an outgoing supply trawler at the dock. Try not to take the crew with you..." Rommel informed the slightly swaying Stirling in a dead tone. He paused and added. "I trust that you will know what a Trawler looks like... anything bigger and I'll have the Kreigsmarine on my backside from now until my death."

The cheering subsided. Stirling widened his eyes as he wondered if he had misheard the Rommel's statement.

"You...You'd let us go?"

Rommel stood there for a good moment before finally; he nodded his head in confirmation.

"You're all marked men now. There is now an order demanding summary executions for commandos," the Field Marshall warned the gathered survivors. "Even if I captured you and gave my word, I can't protect you either now... So I see no other choice than to let you go. Perhaps we could strike a deal. Redirect your special skills to the SS in Egypt and I'll let you leave..."

"I think we could do something like that," Stirling conceded to the Field Marshal. Wiping blood off his mouth, he added. "What if my superiors question my men and they tell?"

Rommel turned away, his arms behind his back as he seemed to have thought about what the Englishman had said to him. He coughed into his handkerchief and turned back, half frowning, half smirking as he raised his eyebrow.

"I can see your English newspapers now:" Rommel mused as he approached the SAS men. _"The Desert Fox gunned down an SS colonel after the Afrika Korps protects a hundred civilians and servicemen of the British Empire from murderous Nazis, then allowed a crack unit of Tommy commandos an opportunity to escape!"_ I could always use more good publicity..."

The slight smile vanished completely. Rommel's eyes hardened at the younger Englishman.

"Do not make me regret this, or I'll unleash the wrath of God onto all of you," Rommel warned them.

Glancing back to his men and the civilians being escorted back out of the fortress and in the hands of the Afrika Korps, the Commando nodded. As much as he considered the Desert Fox an enemy, he would oblige his offer. Regretting it, he offered his hand to the Field Marshal, who shook it.

With their business concluded, the Field Marshal left, tucking his sidearm back into his holster and stepping over the dead Adolf Eichmann and his men leaving behind him a stunned group of SAS men watching several Afrika Korps men fight back tears as they lifted up the body of Hegelin and carried him off for repatriation, back to Germany if it was at all possible.

Like a true hero.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

Pacing his command center, empty as his staff celebrated their successful pacification of this godforsaken rock, Generalfeldmarschall Erwin Rommel left his sidearm on his dresser, his hand working through his hair.

He could believe what he had done. The first time in years he killed a man in war and it was mid-level SS man who was apparent confidant to Reinhard Heydrich. Sure he had thoroughly dealt with the situation. It would be a week before Rommel would have to report Eichmann's death. He would take him to Egypt and blow his corpse up in a minefield or something. Anything looked better than him getting shot in the throat for doing his duties, no matter how grim they were.

Sitting in the corner of the room was the quarian he had come to know over the past few months Admiral Utala'Falan. Her eyes followed his every movement as he nearly burned a hole through the floor he was treading on. He paid her no mind; naturally, his thoughts were too clouded in his own actions. Sure they were justified. The man had ordered a summary execution of one of his men, simply for standing up in what was right. But should anyone find out than that would be it. He would be court marshalled, his career over, his life forfeit, as would his wife and son's.

Taking a breath, Erwin finally met the gaze of the Admiral. Utala stood up and stepped closer to him. Her eyes to focused on the sidearm briefly before turning back to the pacing, temperamental fifty year old tactical savant.

"It was a foolish thing to do, to kill Eichmann like that," he growled. "I have jeopardized the plans. Von Rundstedt will have my head for what I have done."

Falan reached out and touched his shoulder, but it was brushed off quickly as Rommel continued to pace, his head lowered in deep contemplation.

"It will be kept quiet. Any witness against you is dead, your men or the enemy, everything is fine. All they will know is you shot that bastard in defence of others and not about some great scheme we're a part of," Utala reassured the brooding military man. She paused and then added. "Besides, you read his profile. You know what he was doing to the civilians; you know what he intended to do to those commandos."

But Rommel was not about to listen to something so reasonable.

"That does not excuse my action actions, Admiral. He should have stood trial and been hung. I gave him the quickest way out," he complained, looking furious with the situation. "Death at my hands is much too honourable an end for the likes of him."

As he passed by her again, Utala reached out and grabbed the human by his forearm. He stopped pacing and turned to her.

"I'm proud of you, Erwin…" she admitted to him.

Rommel simply stared at her, his head tilted off to the side. He looked close to telling her that he thought she was spewing bullshit.

"You show your regrets, but you did what was right," she whispered, elaborating for his benefit. "You used your heart... It's a first I have seen..."

She trailed off and looked at him helplessly. Rommel could only snort in a fashion that told her he was almost amused by her genuine praise.

"You make me sound heartless," Rommel laughed humourlessly "Like this is my first good deed."

Falan only shook her head.

"You are in a position of command during war, It is expected that one must use his head, not his heart," Utala soothed his brooding pessimism. "This display... the way you stood up to a monster... it was... It was ... _impressive_."

Once more Rommel was on the verge of reminding the quarian that the only reason he did something was because of the death of the rifleman. In all likelihood he probably wouldn't have retaliated like he had done if it was just the civilians and Stirling being marched off to possible execution. It made him sound like a terrible person, but he was a part of a conspiracy now. A Generalfeldmarschall in a conspiracy that wasn't ready to begin had to understand that a few must die to save the rest.

But his reasons no matter how much he downplayed his actions wasn't getting through to Utala. She looked at him strangely, her eyes glancing back and forth as she inspected him as she stepped closer to approach the field marshal. She stopped, only inches away from the only slightly taller man. She was breathing strange as her eyes, it was shallow. It was as though she was forgetting occasionally to breath.

Rommel arched his brow only slightly as he watched as the Admiral bit her lip.

Strange fingers wrapped around the belt of his uniform she stepped closer still. Rommel glanced quizzically at her until finally, her lips touched against his for the briefest of seconds. It did not take much longer than that for Utala to realize what she had done. Her eyes widened, her lips dragged back from his as she let go of him, her eyes wide and confused as to why she would do such a thing.

Rubbing her neck, Utala gave off a high, nervous laugh.

"I... I should not have done that."

Without waiting for the slightly stunned Rommel, This wasn't exactly his first moment of infidelity by any means. But certainly a first with someone he considered a colleague. Of course he wasn't yet factoring in that she wasn't even human, which was the most drastic oddity about this situation.

"Admiral Falan?"

The embarrassed woman froze in place and turned to face the man standing there with his arms behind his back, his mouth turned up into a smile for the first time in a very long time. He had just executed a future war criminal and found himself in someone affection, even if that someone wasn't exactly his wife.

"Next time you find yourself kissing me, do me a favour and dress a little more feminine," the Desert Fox requested of her. "It's my prerogative not to have to kiss those dressed like my own soldiers."

The expression on the Admirals face silently told him that if he did not want to be disembowelled, he would not make such a comment like that ever again to her.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

 **Changes: clean up (better looking than the last two stories. I hope it stays the same.) Removed the memoirs part, there was too much future telling in the original series. People who are new should not be spoiled. One of my biggest mistakes caused in part of my impatience.**


	2. December 12th, 1942

**Chapter Two: December 12th, 1942**

 **...**

Staring into the mirror of the changing room, Joachim Hoch wasn't sure if the man staring back at him was him at all.

It was hard to believe how much just over two months in Gestapo custody could do to a man. His head was shaved and cut up from the scissors and blades that the guards used to remove his hair as though to mark him as a traitor, his face was mess of facial hair that hadn't been dealt with since he ended up in their hands. His eyes blacked out and his body bruised everywhere from the repeated beatings.

Worst of all, he had lost somewhere in the margin of twenty, maybe thirty pounds; the Gestapo pigs having forgotten to feed him on occasion and when he did it was what prisoners got: bread and water. Nearly every day he ended up on the bad side of the protective services. Sometimes it was provoked, most of the time simply because they could.

As bad as it was, they really could have been a lot more brutal if that was even possible. Kaltenbrunner, who on occasion ventured to see him made sure that he was wasn't beaten too badly. He was still in the circle, to them; this just was simply a matter of _political re-education_ as Kaltenbrunner once so delicately put it. They said that his loyalty to the Party was in doubt. Well it hadn't been until he found himself selling out everything he ever stood for to the quarians.

In some respect, Joachim deserved what he was getting. Selling everything he ever knew for the sake of a woman. Thinking back to it, he still should have taken a swing at her, drop her on the gangway right in front of her mother and niece for all of this shit she had put him through.

Putting on the last of his uniform, his jacket, now a wrinkled bloody mess thanks to Skorzeny manhandling him, which he privately swore a vow that he would shoot that son of a bitch if he ever saw him again. Christ, he was going to have to write an enemies list. Men he would have to deal with once whatever it wwas the quarians were planning was underway.

Dabbing the last of the dried blood running from off his neck, thus, revealing a long bayonet nick that cut all the way to collarbone used by a guard who used his rife to prod him awake, it was in the process of healing, but it was still a disgusting badge he earned. Silently Hoch pulled on his peaked cap and nodded to the guards contemptuously as he staggered out of the building and into the dull winter that awaited him outside.

Checking his pockets, his cigarettes and his wallet were untouched. Say what you will about the Gestapo, at least they did not steal from their own.

Joachim glanced around carefully at his surroundings. The city he stood in was heavily bombed. He knew that already, he had heard the air raid sirens every four or five days but was never allowed to take cover. The ocean side city was damaged, but salvageable. Turning away he continued to hobble down the stairs, past the SS guard around the interrogation centre and to the street. He faintly noticed the civilians wandering the streets around him;

He also faintly realized a voice was calling out to his side; calling out his name with no small measure of concern.

Through swollen eyes, he noticed that it was Gerald Langer was standing a dozen feet away, leaning against his Mercedes. He was the last man Hoch wanted to see at the moment. Gerald looked shocked at the sight of the thin mess of a man standing before him, swaying slightly and quivering in his summer uniform as he stood in the dead of winter, his stomach gurgling.

Langer quickly pushed himself off his and rushed to join his student's side, one hand gripping his machine bicep, the other touching against his chin, gently pushing Joachim's face for inspection. Joachim refused to look at his mentor, he held his eyes straight ahead, refusing to even blink.

"Joachim..." he whispered, clearly horrified. "My _God_ , what have they done to you?"

Joachim pushed the hand off him and stepped down another step, his eyes still scanning the city carefully. It looked... familiar, like he had been here once before, but it was a shadow of what his memories could recall.

"Where are we?" was all he wanted to know from the older man.

The older man did not relent in his concern for his beaten to a pulp apprentice. He pulled off his coat and wrapped Joachim in it. Wrapping his arm around his waist, Gerald led the disgraced Obersturmbannführer down the stairs, barking orders at the civilians to clear the two of them a path.

"Edge of Kiel, but not for long though, thank Christ. I'm taking you home, back to Vienna." Langer grunted as he laid Joachim down in the backseat. "You are going to relax and recover from this. My wife is going to fatten you up for Julfest, my children are going to entertain you and I'm going to keep you so drunk that all of this will be just a terrible hangover dream."

Climbing into the front seat, Gerald turned back and grinned, adding. "I'll even contact that girl of yours and she'll be there. I dare say eight weeks is enough to make that itch for quarian _meat_ unbearable..."

Not caring an ounce about any reference to Hanala'Jarva, Joachim fumbled with his cigarette case. Langer leaned back and carefully helped him opening the case, pushing the cigarette into his awaiting lips and lighting it on his behalf. Joachim nearly groaned, it was his first cigarette since his initial interrogations.

"Take me to my home." Joachim groggily requested, rubbing his forehead as the cigarette dangled from his lip. The car started to move forward, surprising Joachim somewhat.

Gerald simply shook his head.

"The day you were shot, Lene told your woman that you would not be cooped up in that dump. I defer to her. You are staying with family; there is no room for debate on the subject."

Joachim wheezed and pushed the coat tighter against his thin body.

" _No_... _no, fucking idiot…_ " he rasped, pushing himself up to sit properly in his seat. "Take me to my home... here... in Kiel... where my Mother lived."

Langer came to a stop, allowing a truck towing a Flak-41 gun to push through the intersection, followed by a fleet of civilian vehicles carrying Luftschutzpolizei to the newest AA emplacement against the English and American bombing raids.

Langer glanced back to the ailing younger man, sympathy offered up to the once vibrant, now nearly broken Hoch.

"Joachim... I know it's hard to hear, but I don't think it's a good idea-" he started. He was immediately silenced by the expression of rage that radiated from off Joachim.

"You have no _right_ to argue with me, _Standartenführer_... selling me out like that," The sickly Obersturmbannführer growled at Langer. His words caught Gerald off guard, enough to display a look of extreme guilt. For eight weeks, he had known that his best friend, his mentor, the only man in the world he considered a Father to him had sold him out.

Rubbing his head and controlling his temper until it simmered to a dulled state, Joachim added. "Just take me there. I don't want to fight about it, I just need to see it... one last time. I just need to go home."

Thankfully for him, Langer had the good sense to silently oblige.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

 _ **"That was a foolish, unthinkable act, Rommel! What in the hell were you thinking?! Executing Heydrich's confidant and men in cold blood... in plain daylight in front of over a hundred people, Have you lost the last of your restraint?!"**_

Generalfeldmarschall Erwin Rommel exhaled slowly, annoyed at the holographic projection of Gerd von Rundstedt standing there, his arms crossed as he stared down the younger Generalfeldmarschall for his rash act. He would admit that he fully deserved the reprimand, but in front of Erich von Manstein, Heinz Guderian, Halid'Zorah and Falan was quite another thing.

Malta was now under his control. It cost him two thousand men to take the islands in total. It was well below what his superiors had expected, but even to him, it was still too high in his opinion. The enemy had lost three times the amount of men, not including a very unfortunate decision to flee by boat, where the U-boats had been waiting for them. The overloaded transport was carrying civilians and soldiers. Very few of the two thousand on board the vessel survived.

As for him, he had set himself into the mostly untouched Valletta City Hall. There he would direct his refocused advance into British Egypt, at least until the Italians set up their garrison on the island. He would probably have to leave a few of his men to aid.

It was imperative now that returned back to the front, back to driving the British out of Cairo. As much as he thought the personal direction was important. It was paramount for his forward unit's morale to know that their suffering was shared by their commander. For now he was relying on quarian technology; notably the real time satellite imagery which had been quite the asset. He did not need it, but it was good to know that it was on hand.

Right now however he wanted nothing to do with the quarian technology presented to him. Utala'Falan had set up what she called a holographic projector, capable of acting like a telephone that was capable of sending his image and voice off to others Apparently, this technology was provided to the two other commanders, Manstein and Guderian, both of whom now off a few hundred miles outside of Stalingrad. Manstein managed to persuade him and the Führer to transfer Guderian to the East to help the gifted Prussian with his planned counterattack against the siege of Stalingrad

"He had executed one of my men for standing against his orders. I had to deal with him, and his men…" Rommel argued back, appealing for the commander's understanding. "I do not plan on doing it again, but I most certainly will not apologize for it."

Though Von Manstein and Guderian seemed to understand where Rommel was coming from, Gerd von Rundstedt still looked somewhat more pessimistic to his actions. Someone had to be rationality personified and Von Rundstedt was quite possibly the most solid man Rommel had ever met, even if they disagreed on just about everything.

 _"You're just in good luck that the cover story worked, that the British you let escape did it…"_ grumbled Von Rundstedt, still looking as though he was sucking on a lemon; _"We are all treading into dangerous waters now. I will not have you messing this up now for everyone for something as small minded as your reputation."_

Rommel glanced back to Falan who ducked her head away from him. Inwardly smirking, Rommel turned back and simply nodded. The matter of Eichmann was not concluded by any means, but the two men were saved any further conversation by the quarian standing with Von Rundstedt.

 _"I feel we must address our two most destabilizing assets we have gained before we press on any further, our two SS men, Heinz Heydrich and Joachim Hoch,"_ Admiral Zorah interrupted any further rage simmering from Rundstedt for Rommel's rash lapse of judgement. _"Heydrich second guesses his decision to hand over physical proof that this extermination is occurring, Canaris is keeping him grounded, but he's going to be busy with keeping the Gestapo in the dark. Hoch on the other hand was blackmailed into joining us. The last time we encountered him, we destroyed his world. He's been in Kaltenbrunner's custody ever since."_

Happy to finally drop the lecture, Rommel nodded in agreement with the quarian, his fingers wrapped together as he leaned into his seat in front of hastily installed projector. Behind him still stood Admiral Falan, her eyes staring obsessively at the holograms of the military men; she seemed incapable of turning to meet Rommel's expressions of amusement by how uncomfortable she appeared.

 _"What do you suggest?"_

The voice belonged to Erich von Manstein, beside him was Heinz Guderian. Both men used the same projector, the two of them were just outside of the bulge created by the soviets after they had encircled Stalingrad, cutting the Sixth Army off from the rest of the Army Group. Manstein had requested Guderian to serve as a second push to Stalingrad. The city was a lost cause. Every man but the Führer knew it. The advances would not break the ring of steel, but rather serve as a small wedging breakthrough to evacuate as many of the trapped men they could before the Soviets counterattacked.

 _"I believe the two of them need handlers, men in the Heer they can talk to, keep them in check until we can trust them... Perhaps help them cope with what they are doing,"_ Halid continued, glancing to the many humans around him. _"We need them both in different ways, one will testify for Reinhard Heydrich's prosecution. The other has connections into the higher echelons of the SS. He could stop the war if it works out right."_

Gerd von Rundstedt snorted derisively.

 _"So long as every single leader in the SS have been completely wiped out the moment we act. The boy is dead weight…"_ he pointed out to the quarian, who accepted the answer offered by the professional soldier. Von Manstein and Guderian both inclined their heads, agreeing on the observation.

Sighing audibly, Gerd von Rundstedt turned back to Zorah.

 _"My son, Hans could help the Heydrich boy, he's aware of what is going on. Besides, they're close to the same age, close to the same rank. Both of them are family men,"_ Von Rundstedt vouched on behalf of his son. _"I imagine Hans could convince him this is the best course for his family."_

Zorah nodded his head. He seemed to agree wholeheartedly with the choice.

 _"Which leaves us with Hoch..."_ the quarian admiral pressed on. _"Would anyone be willing to take him in?"_

No one spoke. No one it seemed was inclined to take in Joachim Hoch. Rommel felt somewhat bad for the young man. As Zorah had said, everything he stood for was gone now, lost to a sudden revelation that everyone, right down to his comrades in the SS had been using him in some way or another. He was vulnerable and caught up in a conspiracy to which he had no idea what role he could play.

Glancing back to Utala, who had seemed to have lost some of her shyness, Rommel turned back to the holograms.

"I could do it..." he volunteered his services to the cause. Zorah nodded, he seemed alright with it. Gerd von Rundstedt however was quick to shoot down the plan.

"Between preparing for invasion in the west and routing out Montgomery in the east, you are much too busy for that sort of undertaking, Herr Rommel," Von Rundstedt reminded the younger Generalfeldmarschall as though reprimanding him for forgetting. "Besides, you took in this Joachim Peiper as a connection to the Waffen-SS. It will raise too many questions why you have another SS man in your charge. One unaffiliated to the division you control."

Not liking that Von Rundstedt was right, that it would look suspicious, Rommel silently deferred to the Prussian's judgement. Next to the quarian and Prussian stood Manstein and Guderian, both of whom who were talking quietly amongst themselves. Nodding briefly, Guderian turned back to face the others.

"I suppose I could take him in once my role in Operation Winter Storm has concluded and I am placed back into the reserves," Heinz Guderian announced tersely to the others. "I have read the file on him; I can usually break hard cases. I think he could do well with some time out of this Langer's hands. I might even be able to make him somewhat more respectable."

Rommel smiled slightly. Guderian was probably the best choice for breaking down the SS image of the young man. He was a tough commander, Joachim probably would respect that. It wasn't everyday a man as respected as Guderian was willing to spend his personal time, mentoring.

"That's very good of you Herr Guderian." Zorah praised the generosity of the panzer general. "We should wrap this up for Von Manstein and Guderian's sake... I wish you both the best of luck."

Everyone saluted one another. It was odd considering they were all bluish holograms. No one however signed off. Erich von Manstein held up his hand, his expression breaking into the slightest of smiles.

 _"Before I leave I would like to extend best Birthday wishes to you, Herr Generalfeldmarschall,"_ the wryly looking officer announced to the group.

Rommel turned away from Von Manstein and back to Von Rundstedt, grinning. The elder Prussian looked extremely uncomfortable with such recognition of something as childish as a Birthday.

 _"Thank you, Generalfeldmarschall..."_ Von Rundstedt quietly thanked Erich. _"I was planning on pretending that my family have not planned a celebration once I head home tonight,"_ He paused and smiled slightly, added. _"Since you have acknowledged that today is an important day to me, the only gift I ask of you is for you to push your Army Group as hard as you can against the Soviets. Rescue the men of the Sixth Army. We will need all the men w can get to stem the coming violence."_

"And what of us?"

The voice belonged to Falan, she wanted in on the conversation. Being a female among human military men usually meant that they assumed the best she could do was serve as an assistant. Rommel had once felt that way as well until she helped him rout the Eighth Army. In his eyes, she was in every way his equal... well perhaps not in rank.

At least until he managed to convince the quarians to convert to the Kriegsmarine style of ranks. Großadmiral Falan had a nice ring to it.

 _"You have Malta under your control and the English trapped in Cairo. You both have accomplished more than I had expected,"_ Gerd von Rundstedt spoke more to Rommel than to her, adding. _"Just try not to screw it up and put too much faith in the Vichy military guarding Morocco and Algeria. It might be wished not to push the Suez invasion until the Algerian invasion is smashed..."_

Gerd paused and turned directly to Falan. A sly smirk now present on his mouth.

 _"As for you, I am trusting that you to keep his ego in check, Admiral Falan,"_ the old man demanded. _"The last thing we need is him being overconfident. Our enemies will know that they are facing a prima donna instead of the feared Desert Fox... For Christ sake, keep him from killing anymore SS men."_

Glancing to Rommel and trying very hard not to laugh at the look of glowering anger growing more and more clear, she nodded.

"I will do my best."

With that said, Gerd von Rundstedt and Zorah blinked out, then Von Manstein and Guderian, leaving Rommel and Falan staring at one another.

Slowly, the scowl turned into a smirk, a wide, knowing smirk that told Falan exactly what was on his mind. Twenty-four hours and he was still fascinated by the mistake she had made. Well she was not ever going to do that again. Not now, not never. She tried not to notice as the Generalfeldmarschall paused on in inches in front of her. Slowly he glanced her over. Smiling confidently as his fingers touched her hair, hair usually tightened into a bun and hidden under brimmed forage cap.

"I see you have taken my advice… interesting development," he observed plainly.

It was all he needed to say. Still grinning confidently, Rommel left the room, leaving a blushing quarian behind to clean up her holographic projector and wondering what in the hell she had started.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

 _"Stop here."_

Langer obliged the near whisper coming from Joachim. Pulling to the side of the road, Joachim climbed out of the car; the first thing he inhaled was the strange mixture of ash and salty ocean air. He simply stood there for a moment before he unsteadily made his way to the small one level home two blocks from the bay, the place he once called home was caved in.

The streets of his childhood were usually filled with people. The war had changed that, they were mostly empty with the exception to a few women who stared as they passed by him. He barely noticed Langer trailing behind him closely, concerned.

Joachim paid no mind to the traitor trying to make things right with him.

Four men came out across the street; Luftschutzpolizei by the looks of it, leading them was a civilian, middle aged, his face looking permanently etched with a scowl. Joachim continued stepping to the ruins until the man finally stopped the thin SS officer by wrapping his hands around the younger man's shoulder.

"Obersturmbannführer, this complex is condemne-"

Before the Blockleiter could do a thing about it, Joachim slammed his forehead into the older man's nose, dropping him hard on the ground, screaming as he clutched his broken nose. His random act of violence stunned the air raid police, sealing their decision not to start a fight with a clearly unstable man. He stumbled through the group, leaving Langer to clean up the mess as he opened the hatch gate and stepped into the grounds of the small home that was once housed his parents.

Ignoring Langer's words of apologies to the screaming with rage Blockleiter, Joachim stepped through the door frame of the smashed home and stepped into the snow and ash covered hallway. He exhaled unsteadily; his dulled eyes glanced around the room as memories of old returned to haunt him.

Honestly, Joachim never wanted to be here before. Back when he didn't feel decades older than he was, back when he was mesmerized by service to the Fatherland, by the SS he swore his loyalty to, whom was a family and not quick to betray one another like rats on a sinking ship.

The house felt so much smaller than he remembered it, yet it was less like the prison he felt it had been where he forced to listen to his mother cry every other night for what had happened to the bastard she had loved and lost.

It was so pathetic to witness, in the end it was just another nail in the coffin, sealing his decision to rebel totally against everything she stood for.

He paused by an open door, revealing his old room. He glanced into it leaning his tired body against the frame. His room was caved in by the explosion. Other than that, everything had been left the way he had last saw it. Strange, he had expected her to pawn his things off.

She was by no means rich like the family had once been before the war; her parents held major investments in the _Kaiserliche Werft Wilhelmshaven_ , the shipyards that once built Anglo dreaded dreadnoughts for the Kaiserliche Marine. After the company was forced to close after the capitulation of the Kaiser and the forced peace, the investments became worthless and what little marks they could get became worthless the moment the hyperinflation that destroyed what was left of old Germany commenced.

Pushing away from his room, Joachim walked the creaking wood floor. He was lightheaded and feeling close to vomiting right there. It felt perverse to be here. Like he was grave robbing. He ignored the lurching wrongness building inside of him and pressed on until he finally found himself standing himself in his Mother's room.

Joachim blinked.

He stared ahead at the large, brownish red stain left in the carpet, debris pushed to the side. It was dead blood unwashed off the carpet. It must have been his Mother's blood.

Biting his lip and rubbing his facial hair, Joachim tugged off his hat and stepped past it and into the torn apart room. Langer's jacket came off next as he sat onto her bed. His eyes remained focused on the stain. He wondered if she lingered on, he wondered if it was a quick death. He hoped it was quick, he may have not have liked her, but no one deserved to suffer that much.

Joachim turned away and stood up, wandering the room, picking through her things. It was mostly picked clean. Whether she sold it or it was looted by the authority of the Blockleiter, Joachim wasn't sure, but he was sure as hell going to go out there and make him talk. He paused in front of the nightstand and opened the drawer. Inside there was a perfect envelope. Somehow it was untouched by the war. His name was written in the centre of the letter in perfect calligraphy.

He tore open the envelope and delicately unfolded the letter.

 _Joachim,_

 _I made many mistakes in my life. You are by far my most grievous error._

 _Mother_

Folding the letter up, Joachim stood from the dusty seat, slipping the yellowed piece of paper into his jacket pocket. Tightening the buckles of Langer's ill-fitting winter jacket, he hobbled out of his Mother's desecrated room and headed back outdoors into the blistering winter that awaited him.

Was it normal that he felt nothing for his Mother's last words to him?

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

Night time had fallen in the icy hell known to the world as Stalingrad; Pulling the battered Kübelwagon off the main road and down the dirt road. They were almost there. They were almost there now!

Leutnant Helmet Mann was in terrible condition. His toes frost bitten, sick from influenza. He had struggled on. A few hours ago, however a Russian had shot him in the gut. With Mann out of commission, it left Feldwebel Christian Bohr in charge, and he sure as fuck wasn't going to take his friend to the butchers in the field aid station. That was how the squad found themselves just outside of Pitomnik Airfield, the major airfield that imported supplies and exported the sick and wounded.

Though... there might have been an alternative reason to his decision to skip the field hospitals. The airport might be more lenient and allow the whole squad to flee. He convinced the men of the squad to pool together their back pay and use it to bribe the aircrews into a safe transport out on medical leave. Turning back to the back seat, he smiled confidently to the moaning Mann, being held by Johann Oster, his wound clutched tightly by Erich Fuhrmann, who looked close to a mental collapse himself.

"Herr Mann, we're nearly there!" he cried out to the Leutnant, he gestured to the Junkers JU 52 on the tarmac, adding. "Look, it's a Transport plane; I told you they hadn't left yet! You're almost home now!"

Pushing through the supplies being loading onto trucks, they found the aid station. Standing there, redressing the bandages of an Unteroffizier was a Stabsarzt. He glanced up and noticed the squad carrying the officer. He carefully helped the Unteroffizier off the stretcher he sat on.

"Our Commander was hit," Bohr explained as they laid him down. "He needs to get the hell out of here!"

The medical officer only barely listened to what Bohr stated frantically. He dug through the pockets of the Leutnant and produced his identification papers. Nodding his head as though he was confirming the man's identity, the Stabsarzt glanced up to the muddy and wet Heer soldiers.

"He's critical; you did the right thing bringing him here," he praised as he removed a small blank card, wrote an order and handed it to Bohr. "Get him to the plane. They're about to take off."

Nodding graciously, Bohr directed Oster and Hammer, who were now carrying the stretcher top the airstrip runway, Fuhrmann trailing behind them. Overhead they saw several BF-109's fly overhead of them, to the distance the sky light up and the wailing of the Katyusha rockets screamed over them. It did not matter to Bohr. They were almost there... almost there... almost there. One little lie and bribe and they would be in the clear!

"Stand back!"

The squad froze fifteen or so meters from the transport, out stepped a well-dressed Luftwaffe Hauptmann, staring suspiciously at the men in front of him. Despite being in a different service, Bohr turned to his men and silently ordered them to stand at attention.

"Herr Hauptmann, our friend has an evacuation ticket." Bohr spoke to the Hauptmann as he handed over Mann's ticket, gesturing to the stretcher bound Leutnant.

The Hauptmann inspected the ticket and then nodded to his crew, who took over the stretcher, carefully taking the wounded man inside of the warm transport. As the Hauptmann turned to join his crew, Bohr reached out and grabbed the man's shoulder. He turned back, scowling at the gesture. Bohr merely smiled, trying to tell the man that everything was fine.

"I know this may sound... shady…" he spoke causally to the cross armed older man. "We were just wondering if we could perhaps buy a couple tickets as well. We're good for the money, we swear we are."

Before Bohr realized it, the Luftwaffe pilot shoved the Feldwebel to the hard tarmac.

"You think you're real _fucking_ originals, don't you? Bribing a pilot?!" he roared at Bohr, then staring down the rest of the Heer soldiers. "If I take you along, I have to forfeit my life, so go fuck yourself and fight you fucking _cowards_!"

The Luftwaffe Hauptmann's crew appeared from the transport plane. All of them armed and pointing at the Heer men. The men escorted the worn down squad until they were off the tarmac, back amongst the sick and wounded.

The Luftwaffe men glanced to one another. Silently, they slung their bandoleers of ammunition and tugged off their coats, handing them over to the surprised squad. They had nothing to say. The gesture was enough to tell them that though they could not bring the squad, they were sympathetic to their situation they turned to bolted join the Hauptmann, who had roared the plane to life.

It wasn't long after that plane took off and was a dot in the sky. Bohr, glancing at the coat in his hand could not have fucking believed it. He was so certain that it would have worked. To him, the godforsaken Luftwaffe pigs were the greediest bastards he had ever had the displeasure of knowing.

"They took him... They took him and left us all behind!" Bohr screamed to no one in particular, throwing the coat at Oster's feet. Bohr turned back to Hammer, who was inspecting the wounded. "Why did they leave us? What in the fuck are they thinking! We had Reichsmarks!"

Hammer wasn't moved by the rage as he pulled on the jacket.

"They're saving the officers, not us..." Hammer spoke distastefully. He gestured to the wounded surrounding them and added. "Look, they have the same injuries that Mann has, but their sitting in a fucking tent... Officers are investments, the rest of us are expendable... bastards."

Neither of the men paid mind to Fuhrmann as he collapsed, nearing a state of hyperventilation.

 _"I don't want to die here..."_ He moaned, unable to catch his breath. _"I-I don't want to die here…"_

Johann Oster dropped down beside the boy, his arm wrapping around the shaking, frightened teenager. The Jaeger paid no mind to the screaming match between Bohr and Hammer. The kid didn't serve to be trapped in this pocket... No one did. Carefully, he wrapped the boy in the coat dropped by Bohr.

"Fuhrmann, calm down... Everything is going to be alright." He tried to sooth the kid, now rocking back and forth. "You heard the radio reports. Manstein is coming to save our asses! Ten more days in this hell and we'll escape!"

Hammer turned from Bohr and focused on the sniper's careful spoken words.

"What if he doesn't come, Oster? What then?" He inquired sardonically. "The fucking Russians completely destroyed everything we can throw at them. They tore through those useless fucking Romanians in half an hour. At this point they were better equipped than we are now."

Oster winced as Fuhrmann gripped him tighter, Hammer's death sentence frightening the seventeen year old. Oster wanted nothing better than to kick Kurt's throat in.

"They fought to the best of their ability, so shut the hell up, Hammer." Oster nearly growled at the offending son of a bitch. "The Soviets overwhelmed everyone. Us, the Italians, the Romanians, the Hungarians, It didn't fucking matter. They threw everything they had at us. What the hell did you expect that we were going to stop them?"

Not gaining a reply from the bastard, Oster turned back to face Fuhrmann, his scowl forming back into a reassuring smile.

"Mark my words, Erich. Generalfeldmarschall Von Manstein will come to our rescue," he promised the shaking soldier. "He promised that he would... now come on, we should get back to our position."

Fuhrmann glanced up from the reassuring smile belonging to Oster, top the pessimism of Hammer and the still in denial Bohr; he simply nodded and pulled himself up from the ground. Ten more days and they would be back behind German lines. Whether it was Germany, Poland or the rest of occupied Russia, anywhere was better than this shithole.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

Playing the part of a police officer like he once was when policing was one of the primary duties of the SS. Gerald Langer tracked Joachim a good four blocks away from his childhood home and to a tavern that Gerald did not bother to seek out the name.

The tavern was packed tightly, filled with drunken Kreigsmarine sailors. By the looks of their conditions they were U-boat men, burnt out from their time at sea. All of them looking just as bad a shape as Joachim were. He had to push through them, none of them seeming to respect the presence of an SS-Standartenführer before them. He would not pursue them for respect; only authority abusing pricks did that.

Ignoring the jeers, Langer scanned the room until he finally found who he was looking for. Joachim Hoch was hitting in a corner booth, a bottle of schnapps on the table, a glass and a cigarette in his hands.

Deciding he needed to intervene before he did some serious damage, Langer pushed through the stinking sailors and eventually found himself at Hoch's table.

Without waiting for an invitation, Langer took a seat.

"Locals said they saw a beaten up SS officer staggering off to the bar," Langer spoke with a humour intones gruffness. "Have you seen him?"

Refilling his glass, Joachim paid no attention to what Langer had thought to be a slightly humorous observation. The younger man looked as though he was already drunk. Though to be fair the lack of food probably caused it. He rubbed his eyes and continued to stare ahead to the liquor sitting on the counter. Next to him was an unfolded letter laying on the table.

"Your mother?" he guessed out loud.

There was only the faintest of nods before Joachim tucked it into his pocket and continued to drink, one hand resting his head as he stared into his glass. Gerald exhaled slowly. He raised his hand to order himself a strong drink. Just the one calm himself down as well. Retrospectively, Marta Hoch was an unpleasant woman to deal with…

"I would have thought you had learned by now that association with your old life has gotten you into this mess," he said, making a point to keep his voice from sounding judgmental.

Joachim glanced up and simply glared at the older man as the barkeep approached with a glass of schnapps for him.

"I'm sorry but it is the truth!" Langer defensively stated to the angered Joachim. "You gave up your old life when you swore your _oath_ to the Führer. You promised me you had pushed the old life behind. This is why you ended up in their custody; you let the past catch up to you!"

Joachim barked out a laugh.

"I did give up my old life in case you forgot! I was quite _happy_ forgetting it until that… that _Jewess_ showed up on my doorstep!" Joachim reminded him, his cigarette in his fingers, his teeth bared like an animal. "I never her met her before in my life. She showed up at my home like fucking vagabond. I had no intention on aiding her. It's not my fault that you spilled my past the moment Kaltenbrunner cornered you. Saved your own skin because you decided it wasn't worth mentioning almost a decade ago!"

Joachim turned away, justifiably disgusted by the presence of Langer. Langer sighed, his hand running through his thinning hair as he searched for the right thing to say. Not that there was a right way to admit he had sold his student, friend and pseudo son out.

"Yes... Yes I suppose I did hide those little facts," he agreed, his mouth curving into a frown. Reloading his drink, he added. "It was back when those sorts of secrets got others in trouble. I did not know that in four years we would be at war with the whole world. At the time, your parent's activities were a big deal."

Langer paused, taking a deep breath, he looked up and met Joachim's drunk, accusing eyes.

"Kaltenbrunner isn't a man I want to lie to in his face. Everyone is so damn scared of Heydrich when it is Kaltenbrunner everyone should be completely _terrified_ of!" He explained to the staring Obersturmbannführer. "Heydrich plans on taking over the Führer's position one day; he needs to keep his hands mostly clean. Kaltenbrunner only serves the Reich. He's a drunk with a real psychotic streak to him and no ambition beyond replacing Heydrich and Himmler. Given a chance, he could make Heydrich look like an angel!"

Joachim was not willing to listen; he pounded down his drink and leaned in, his hands gripping the sides of the table so hard that Langer could swear that his artificial hand was cracking the oak table.

"Saying Kaltenbrunner is frightening to stand up to isn't an adequate enough excuse, Langer!" Hoch hissed, his eyes watered and filled with an unquenchable rage. "I thought our friendship wasn't going to bend! That we were better a duo than on our own! You're a _liar_ , you lousy, _fucking_ coward as well!"

Langer could have gotten mad, he could have attacked Hoch and for the first time since they met, he imagined he could have beaten this emaciated and drunk man to a bloody pulp. He restrained himself.

Instead he decided he would simply tell him the truth.

"Joachim, I have a family that I need to think about. A family Kaltenbrunner would not pause to take from me... and I feel terrible for saying this, but that is the way my priorities are…" he finally admitted to the shocked into silence younger man. The honesty broke through the rage to reveal an expression of horrified vulnerability from Joachim.

Langer looked to the table top. He could not look his friend in the eye.

"You are like a son to me, Joachim..." Langer spoke with shame. "…yet you are not… and I... I will always choose their safety over yours. That's not to be malice… it's just how it has to be as a father and a husband."

It took only a second for it to register in Joachim's mind. Whether it was the words, the lack of food and the excess of cigarettes and alcohol in him, Joachim's eyes widened, his hand covering his mouth, he stormed out of the back of the restaurant, leaving Langer behind in his dust. Langer gathered Joachim's hat and the borrowed jacket. Leaving a handful of coins to pay for the drinks, Gerald followed him out the back exit.

Closing the door behind Gerald stood on top step where he watched Joachim kneeling in the snow, making unnatural sounding noises as he vomited his guts out into the snow. Gerald winced as he caught sight of it. Nothing but the alcohol he consumed. Joachim was going to be suffering for it for the next day or so.

"Helena and Heinrich got married three weeks ago. They just got back from Milan." Langer spoke to lighten the subject and offer a distraction to Joachim as he hurled once again. "It was just a small ceremony. Lene nearly had a brain bleed, she wanted a wedding that rivals a royal one, bless her delusional heart..."

Hoch did not reply to it. He simply scooped a handful of virgin snow and used it to wash his mouth out. Langer frowned to himself.

"Your... _girl_ has contacted me many times." Langer admitted, causing Joachim to freeze for only a second. "She was trying to find out your condition, if you were ever going to get out of their custody. She sounded scared... She's seemed like she was in trouble with you."

Joachim spat out the snow and grabbed another handful of powder.

"That's nice of her..." he mumbled as he washed his drool coated lips.

Langer frowned yet again. He inched himself closer to the drunk Obersturmbannführer, who was in an odd relationship with a being from another planet. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps Hoch had grown tired of her.

"Tossed her to the curve then?" he inquired curiously. Turning his frown into an uncertain smile, he added. "Well it was probably for the best."

Joachim only shook his head.

"No..." Joachim spoke, his voice low as he finished wiping the last of the vomit off his lips. "I told her I _loved_ her."

Gerald widened his eyes.

He loved the alien?

It was one thing to sleep with her, it was quite another to profess any serious feelings for a being he virtually knew nothing about.

Dropping the handful of stained snow, Joachim sat back in the powder and slumped his head into his hands. Gerald stepped closer, his hand resting on Joachim's drooped shoulder blade. Thankfully, the brooding junior officer did not fight the gesture.

"Those are awfully strong words to use for her... she's a fine enough girl. But she is not exactly the homemaker a man needs... not to mention you both couldn't sire any children..." He spoke tersely to him, not wanting to upset him on this Hanala issue. "It's going to create more than a few... issues."

Joachim turned his head back up.

"I've had eight weeks to think about that." He said as he struggled to pull himself from out of the snow. "Anything you say on the subject is not original. Nothing's changed. I still love her, and I fucking _hate_ that I do."

Gerald nodded; he did not want to push the subject. Suddenly he remembered a small piece on the radio news and smiled.

"Adolf Eichmann was killed in Malta a day or so ago," Gerald decided to change the subject before Joachim could go any further into how he felt for the alien. "They're sending him back to Vienna for a funeral. Heydrich and Himmler are going to be there. I have to go, would you care to accompany with me?"

A strange, foreign sounding laugh rumbled from the bleak younger man. Joachim turned back and suddenly grinned at the news.

"Over my dead body I will go..." He declined the offer. Still grinning, he added. "So Eichmann is dead… could not have happened to a nicer guy."

The two men shared a laugh, something that they hadn't done in quite a while. Slowly the laughter died, still leaving the two men good humoured enough to be smiling. Funny how the news of a death could make them grin like the old days. Sighing, Langer extended Joachim's cap and the borrowed jacket to the sloshed younger man.

"I'm sorry that I told him," Langer offered to Hoch.

Joachim pulled on his cap and waved his hand, his nose sniffling as though he had a cold.

"Forget it..." he mumbled as he fumbled to pull the jacket back onto him.

Langer offered him a thankful; half grin.

"Come on, Joachim, Can I take you to Vienna now?" Gerald asked softly. "I'll let you still be mad at me; saying no to this is taking it out on Lene... who, by the way, is going to have a fit at that beard."

Scratching his facial hair and smiling slightly, Joachim agreed to the request. Together the two men stumbled back to Langer's car for the long drive south.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

 **Changes: Marta Hoch's letter to Joachim. It never felt right to me even after I wrote it. Too sentimental. Ultimately it didn't reflect on who she was in later chapters.**

 **I have a request. This series is long and packed full of gross errors. While I do my best to clean all the errors I see, it is only natural I will overlook a fair amount of them. Don't just tell me there are errors. If you see them, please PM me what you see is wrong. If it is a screw up, I can go back and fix and repost within a matter of moments. Thanks.**


	3. December 17th, 1942

**...**

 **Chapter Three: December 17th, 1942**

 **…**

Stepping out onto the northern ice cap on the fourth planet humans had apparently named Mars. Captain Rael'Jarva had to turn up his environmental suit's temperature regulator. Why they had chosen this place was beyond him. Perhaps it was for utilizing the planet's only known water supply that they had chosen to set up the first quarian structures on this world, water after all was valuable resource, so using local sanitized sources for crops made sense. It would free up the reserves from being too depleted.

Frankly, it was of no interest to him. He felt that the vast dreams the Admirals had for this solar system was not the course they should take for the future of their people. They should move on from the distant dream to retake the homeworld, and instead find a world that the turians hadn't claimed and settled there. Build from nothing, rather than impose on a primitive race so that one day they would fight the geth for them. It just felt so very… wrong. Like they had decided to be as cold, impersonal and lack any ethics as the salarians did.

Sure, they could say that the uplifting would be done the right way, but there were limited examples on how to do it the right way. The hanar claimed that the Protheans gave them intelligence, though harmless, their religious convictions that the Protheans were a God race was now bordering on zealot-like behaviour.

The salarians uplifted the krogans was the most notable example of why this was a bad idea. Sure, apparently the humans did not breed like the krogan, but the krogans did not place their own kind into vast extermination camps, not even to their enemies, though asteroid drops did not make them saints either.

No… humans were a sick race, and if granted the technology his people possessed, they would eventually make the batarians look like saints in comparison.

Ultimately, he was only one voice in the Conclave; and now the captains of the Migrant fleet were not even informed of the Admiral's plans. Only a handful was made aware of the new policy, and they had no choice in the matter.

Rael could only hope that his people would not lord their superiority over the humans. The last thing they needed was a second uprising. This time the end would result in total extermination.

Approaching the skeleton frame of the biosphere food production plant being set up, by what looked like a hundred workers; his eyes fell on a woman that was on her knees, a welder in her hands as she fused together the steel frame. Occasionally she looked up and barked a few orders, making the men and women around her jump and work quicker.

Shaking his head, Rael could not believe how different his baby sister Hanala was now.

Gone was her innocent idealism, her desire to partake in the innocent things she was so talented in doing. Art, dancing, cultural frivolities that she once so passionately defended from his practical decision making, her time on Earth had changed all of that for her. Between losing her crew and partaking in a war, she had grown in leaps and bounds.

He would have admitted he was proud of her, had her changes been for the better. But no, her time amongst the National Socialists had reshaped everything she stood for. Officially, she denied that it had influenced her, unofficially; Rael could see it in her eyes. That blank stare, as though Hanala was looking past what was in front of her and was instead staring right into his soul. She was cynical in every aspect but one, her fanatical belief that uplifting humanity would solve all their problems, a stance that had led to quite a lot of conflict between Brother and Sister.

Rael cleared his throat, making the woman freeze in place.

"Captain Jarva..." she spoke stiffly, knowing exactly who was behind her without turning back.

Rael frowned slightly as he watched his Sister continue to work the arc wielder over the prefabrication frame. Her helmet hid her face to the world. He did not need to look at it to know that she was scowling. It was a permanent feature she had these days, ever since Father humiliated her which, thankfully for him, he wasn't present to witness. The two fought for hours and that had been the last time neither of them had spoken to each other.

That was two months ago. Every day he had seen her, Hanala had somehow discovered a way to grow more surely, more brooding. Gone were the days he could tease his Sister and get away with it. She was a different woman than he remembered. It was beyond just her brooding… She had seen things and done things that were beyond his comprehension. Murdering a human woman, going to war, it might not have been against quarians, but that did not diminish what she was involved in.

There were rumours flying about amongst those aware of their intentions to settle on Earth that Hanala would be sooner rather than later be reinstated as a Captain, that the new cruiser, bizarrely named Bismarck would be her ship once they cleaned the pirate's junk off it. Oh course that was just rumours, Rael had no belief that Hanala would accept the posting. Ship life, it seemed to him, had become a prison to her.

Of course, the fleet did not have that human on board.

Joachim Hoch...At first he had thought that he as Hanala's version of rebellion, dancing around that giant male alien as though he was her property. He let it slide until Mother told him that they were beyond just an infatuation. Since her return he had tried on a few separate occasions to introduce her to a few more of his friends; it did not take Hanala long to frighten them off and further strain his relationship with her. She appeared dead set at being with this human. To think that love was quite possibly the only reason for her advocating human uplifting was laughable.

Regardless, at this point, Hanala was only talking freely to Mother, Veyare and Saleb. She had lost her trust in the men in her life.

"I think you should call a break, this facility can wait."

Shutting down the torch, Hanala turned back and untinted her helmet so that her Brother could see her face. He had wished that she had not done so. She was scowling at him, her head tilted as she stared at the Captain.

"I was under the impression that Father and the rest of the Admirals had ordered this region be converted into a production of consumables," Hanala sardonically pointed out, her arms crossed as she stepped closer to her Brother.

Rael allowed his hands to curl into balls. He would not admit it, but her mood was terrifying.

"I know that, but you're pushing them much too hard, Hanala." Rael pressed on, trying to keep Hanala's mood level and under control. "There is no deadline to these constructions. I mean, we haven't even been invited to live on Earth yet, setting up the first food production so quickly seems to me like overconfidence… especially when you've completed two others since you got here."

Rael offered his Sister a slight smile, surely she could understand that. Hanala, on the other, clearly didn't. Her eyes narrowed dangerously at her elder Brother. By this time, it was clear to the workers surrounding the Captain and their supervisor that something big was about to go down. Most of them kept working, but others turned to watch the sibling spectacle.

"Oh, I am so _sorry_ Captain Jarva..." Hanala started, simpering sarcastically. "I suppose that such things as where food comes from is _trivial_ compared to your grand responsibilities to the fleet, so allow me to break this down in quite possibly the most simplest of ways to explain it."

She gestured to the frames that the workers were welding together. Her expression was that of a teaching indulging a student.

"Biospheres, whether on a planet or on the live ships are more places for us to grow food. More food means less worry if we will run out, more places to grow our solid food means less dependence on our food tubes," Hanala addressed Rael olike he was a foolish child. She was smiling slightly as she stepped forward. It was not a nice smile as she added. "You will _forgive_ me if I do not want our people having to suck down that tasteless _shit_ for the rest of their lives because the great Captain Jarva felt that further planetary biosphere's were just not necessary because we haven't landed on _Earth_ yet."

Chuckling emitted from the construction crew. Hanala did not pay it any attention, but Rael certainly did.

"Out here I am a superior officer first, your Brother second." Rael stated, flustered by his younger Sister's attitude. "Don't you _dare_ speak to me like that ever again, _understood_?"

Hanala could only arch her brow.

"Captain Jarva, I distinctly recall no longer holding a commission, as such I am now outside of quarian military control." She in turn reminded him, her voice restrained as she crossed her arms. "I now only answer to Halid'Zorah and he wants these facilities up and running. Do you know better than an Admiral?"

Turning away, she finally took notice to the quarians no longer working, but instead watching the spectacle. She was not at all amused.

 _"Ignore the Captain and get back to work! If this section of frame isn't up in the next two hours, I will be reporting it!"_ Hanala nearly snarled at the workers watching the two of them intently. They listened, all of them rushing back to their assignments, leaving the two of them alone once again.

She turned back to Rael, her eyes scanned and frozen briefly before flickering back up to meet her Brother's stare.

"Now, are you going to hit me or not?"

His brain frozen at his Sister's boast, Rael looked down, sure enough his hand was shaking, and the urge to strike his Sister was there planted subconsciously in the back of his mind. Hanala appeared completely unfazed. He had heard her stories through his Father, how she was beaten senseless by Englishmen when she was on her way to unearth the Prothean Dreadnought. His anger was the last thing that frightened her.

Exhaling, he relaxed his arm and stepped back from his Sister and turned away, leaving her to her work. Over his shoulder, he could tell Hanala was standing there defiant, still unmoved by her Brother's anger.

"Mother has requested your presence for dinner in three days," he called from over his shoulder to the woman watching him retreat. "Try to be there. I won't be upset if you don't show up, however."

Hanala gave off a short, shrill laugh.

"Wait a moment," Hanala called after him. "Isn't dinner and being allowed to eat in general related to the work I am doing here?"

Rael could only glower.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

Light shone through his eyelids, jumpstarting Joachim from his slumber. He launched himself out of his bed, his eyes and wild as looked around the room, only to find a young woman standing there by the window, her expression of intense concern for the display of paranoid. For a brief moment he was expecting the screaming of the interrogators walking him up.

It did not come, however, stepping towards him was a young woman; she flattened out her dress and lowered herself to her knees in front of the battered mess. Joachim gave a small, self-depreciating laugh as Helena Fuhrmann nee Langer pressed her palm against the man's cheek.

"Good morning, Joachim. Are you alright?" she whispered to him.

Coughing slightly, Joachim turned his vision to meet Helena's eyes. She looked so different than their last encounter. Less wild eyed and much more tamed. Perhaps marriage had soothed her, perhaps it was being with Fuhrmann, he didn't know. The two of them kept him out of the loop, figures, Joachim wasn't family. He was an ex-flame to Helena and a superior officer to Fuhrmann.

He rubbed his eyes and ignored Helena's finger tips tracing his facial scarring.

"How long was I out for?"

Helena pulled her hand back and smiled carefully at the lost looking slightly older man.

"It's still just the morning, breakfast is being served downstairs." She informed him. She paused, adding. "Would you like me to bring you up a plate?"

Joachim shook his head and unsteadily pulled himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, his arm being supported by the young wife, who sat down next to him. She still looked on him with a concern that was not much different than that of Lene Langer. Joachim ran his hand over his shaved head, an unconscious action he use to do when he still had hair.

"Joachim, I was hoping to speak to you about something," Helena spoke from next to him. "Mother told me not to trouble you so soon, but I must say something."

Joachim turned his head to look her over. She seemed conflicted, like she wasn't sure if she should say anything. Joachim allowed his hand to pat her knee, a wordless encouragement to tell him what was on her mind.

"Something is wrong with Heinrich," she elaborated, her voice low. Squinting, her lips perched, she almost had to force herself to add. "I know what it is, but I promised I would not discuss it... I... I just think that you probably know how to handle it better than I or even Heinrich."

Joachim, though will to indulge her request, was not in the mood to have to pry for information.

"Please, Helena," he spoke quietly. "Do not dance around what is happening. I'm not a child and neither are you anymore."

Helena did not like Joachim's chastising, but she thankfully did not address it.

"Heinrich has a younger Brother." Helena sighed. "He's with the 6th Army, in Stalingrad."

Joachim felt his eye tick as he felt a twinge of sympathy for the boy. Stalingrad, he had heard of the conflict before he was apprehended, but had had been two months ago. The battle was still in their favour back then. Now the Soviets had surrounded them and as he thought about it, there was a desperate operation underway to relieve the beleaguered army.

"I don't see what I can do," Hoch spoke back. "I can't liberate the pocket singlehandedly."

Joachim stood up and stripped off his sleeping clothing, despite the prying eyes of the younger woman. Pulling on his freshly pressed and washed uniform trousers, he turned back to find the rest of his uniform. He ignored the wince as Helena turned away from his scars and the strange seam between flesh and metal that was his artificial arm.

"I know that... would you please just go and talk to him?" she requested as she pointedly looked away as pulled on the rest of his attire, "preferably when my Father leaves. Father just shrugs it off as if it is a soldier's duty to accept that your sibling is trapped in such a hell; but Heinrich... he's really sensitive."

Straightening out his jacket and grabbing his winter greatcoat, Joachim nodded. Yes, Fuhrmann was a bit overtly sensitive. Langer, though empathetic to him, was only that way because of the friendship built over the years. If he was just another junior officer, Gerald would probably ship him off to the East without a thought.

"Very well… yeas, I will talk to him," Joachim assured her as he placed his cap under his arm.

Glancing in to the mirror and deciding the uniform made him appear more stable than he really was, He started to leave, but a small hand belonging to Helena stopped him. He turned back, finding Helena standing there, smiling coyly at him, her hands now behind her back.

"Mother says you found someone…"

Joachim did his best not to roll his eyes at Lene's observation. It would not be long now until she announced her intention to plan a marriage for a couple that couldn't get married in the first place; a couple that Joachim wasn't even sure still existed anymore.

Still, he remained dead silent, an act that made the younger woman scowl.

"I am quite aware of what you are courting," Helena pointed out. "Mother told me after you got shot... Is she nice?"

Ignoring that this was by all means a security breach, Joachim remembered that he wasn't exactly supporting the Reich anymore. Still, he did his best not to throw back his head at the inference made by Helena that Hanala'Jarva was, of all things, nice. Rubbing his forehead, Joachim sighed.

"I honestly do not know if she's nice," Joachim murmured back to the young woman. "I'll give you an answer when I see her again. She's not exactly easy to deal with... She's in their military, you know… strong will."

Helena widened her eyes at learning this little fact.

"That's disgusting, w _omen_ serving in the army…" Helena repeated, her tone absolutely disgusted at the thought of women fighting next to him. "Sounds like something those hideous Russians wenches do."

For the first in what felt like a long time, Joachim genuinely laughed.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

The morning ritual was always different, but there was one thing that was always like clockwork, the first thing that Joachim found himself in was Lene Langer's arms.

Today he came downstairs, fully dressed, shaved and cleaned much to the surprise of the occupants downstairs. Most notable Gerald who, in seeing his protégé cleans and nearly ready to rejoin him at work with the quarians, looked nearly close to clapping at the sight of him. He paused briefly as he found himself surrounded by Wilhelm, Geli, Peter, Frieda and Hilde. All of them excited to see Joachim for the first time in a lively state. Smiling slightly, he limped forward and, once again, found himself once again in Lene's arms.

From behind his wife, Langer stood up, still grinning at the slightly less emaciated looking Joachim. He kissed his wife's cheek and left, surrounded by his youngest children, leaving Joachim still trapped in the woman's grip. Joachim, though close with Lene was still feeling somewhat awkward. Lene being this affectionate was pretty new. Perhaps she knew where in the hell he had been.

Finally escaping her grip, Joachim took a seat, finding himself sitting across from Unteroffizier Heinrich Fuhrmann. He's eyes stared at his food, he seemed to have refused to look up to Hoch, that or he was in deep in contemplation. Funny, Joachim never saw the kid as a deep thinker; then again, he was probably worried sick like Helena had said. A younger Brother in Stalingrad… how old was he? Ten? Twelve perhaps?

Noticing that no one was willing to make a move to break, Joachim cleared his throat as he took a seat.

"How's married life treating you?" he decided to ask as Lene set down a large plate of eggs, toast and ham in front of him. He shot Lene a slight thankful smile, who then went off to round the rest of her children up. Fuhrmann didn't reply, he continued to idly pick through his eggs. Rolling his eyes, he decided he really did not have the patience to dance around the issue, like he had warned Helena earlier.

"As I understand it you have a Brother in Stalingrad," Joachim pressed.

Fuhrmann looked up from the table and focused on Joachim briefly. He turned his head to take a look at Helena, who smiled slightly apologetically for spilling his concerns to a man who spent eight weeks being tortured. Lene glanced between the three of them wearily, she didn't like where this was going.

"Yes, Herr Hoch..." Heinrich admitted softly, almost worried even, "I… I was meaning to speak to you about it if you do not mind."

Nodding, Joachim leaned back into his seat, swallowing his mouthful of eggs as he set down his fork. Taking it as a sign that Heinrich had gained his audience, the Unteroffizier leaned forward, his hands on the table.

"My parents got this phone call from my Brother's Leutnant a few days ago." Fuhrmann explained to Joachim, who was listening intently. "He was wounded and was airlifted back to Munich... I was planning on seeing him, see what he knows what's going on with him. I haven't heard from him since they cut mail service off."

Joachim nodded blankly. Still he did not see what he could possibly do to help.

"Your wife left me under the impression that I needed to hold your hand. It seems you have a plan to me," he stated, gesturing to Helena, who smiled slightly.

The word _'wife'_ startled the younger man. Heinrich turned away, a stupid, dopey look splashed onto his expression. It nearly made Joachim vomit as he tried to focus on eating instead of the lovesick looks being shared between Heinrich and Helena. Lene and he locked eyes briefly, she appeared amused by it, nearly as much as her reaction to Joachim clear distaste with it.

"It... not that simple..." Heinrich finally elaborated for Joachim, his dazed expression wiping away as he looked sheepish once again. "He asked me to help him organize a flight out for them... I might have name dropped you, I said you might know people to get them out."

Fuhrmann had dropped his name to a Heer officer. Groaning so audibly that Lene smirked lightly, Joachim leaned into the table and pressed his hand against his forehead. Why in the hell would he do that? He was barely on his feet and now he had to go to Munich to meet some stranger.

"Everyone seems to think I'm influential..." he muttered mutinously as his breakfast.

"Well... you are, Hoch." Fuhrmann spoke excitedly. "Or you could convince the quarians to get involved. They could destroy the Soviets in minutes! They could save so many lives!"

Joachim quirked his lips at the remark Fuhrmann had thrown out. Convincing the quarians to take a direct intervention in the war would be as easy as pulling teeth. They appeared dead set on directing their rebellion like masters of marionettes.

"I doubt they would do it."

The expression of excitement vanished completely as Fuhrmann was forced back to reality.

"Even if you don't think you can do something, The Leutnant was excited enough to want you to come," Fuhrmann pressed his case to the sceptical officer watching him. "His name is Helmut Mann. He said you two were friends in the Gymnesium near Ravensberg..."

Joachim blanked out Fuhrman's was chattering on. _Helmut Mann_? He had not heard that name in quite some time. To hear that he was connected to the Fuhrmann's as Heinrich's younger brother's superior officer was strange. He really did not remember Mann as having an interest in combat, but rather instead his studies. He had no interest in the party or any sort of politics. Joachim wondered what drove him into the service, more specifically, the officer ranks. Joachim was the leader of their little group back at school, not Mann. It was one thing to be conscripted; it was quite another thing to make it to an officer rank.

 _"He also said that you had your first intercourse with one of the girl's school teachers... A Mademoiselle Dominque Privott-"_

Realizing that Heinrich was on the verge of discussing his first sexual liaison with a woman nearly a decade his senior when he was seventeen, he snapped his head back and glared at the younger man who had most certainly confirmed that he was in contact with Joachim's old school chum, one of a few men that knew he had done such a thing.

"I get the point; his facts check out, I am not looking for a personal history lesson," Joachim nearly hissed, pushing the old memories away.

Thankfully, Lene leaned inwards and smacked Fuhrmann on the head. The children were present. They did not need to hear such things. Turning away from her son-in-law, Lene focused back onto Joachim as he finished his breakfast. Lene pursed her lips together; she did not seem to like that Joachim was being asked to make a long journey while still in this terrible shape.

"Joachim, you don't have to go if you don't want to."

Joachim merely shook his head.

"It's fine, Lene," he assured her before turning back to the younger soldier, adding. "Fuhrmann, Just tell me when."

Finishing the last of his breakfast, he stood up unsteadily, collecting his plate as he paused briefly to kiss Lene's cheek briefly before dropping the plates into the sink. He paid no mind to the alarms looks of the Fuhrmann's and Lene's eyes following him.

"Where are you going?" Lene demanded her voice high and motherly in nature. "I thought you were ordered to stay here and recover."

A cigarette in his mouth, Joachim turned back and waved his heavy winter long coat at the concerned woman.

"I think I'm going to go for a walk," Joachim informed her. "I'll be fine."

With that Joachim slung it over his shoulders and headed out of the house and into the snowy Viennese streets.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

It was the dead of night when their C-47 Skytrain touched down at Wonderboom airfield. Though it might have been the dead of night, it was not slowing down in the training efforts of the South African army, severely crippled after the siege of Tobruk, which ended in total surrender of a division and a half of Afrikaners. The Germans were on their continent. Though it was thousands of miles away, they were still at war with them and thereby open targets to a potential bombing campaign.

Lieutenant General Dwight Eisenhower had to admire their tenacity. South Africa was a relatively small nation that had suffered a catastrophic loss. To think that they were gearing up and looking forward to a second round against the Axis was definitely heart-warming in such a bleak time.

Cairo was on the verge of collapse, First reports were coming in that Germans were spotted fifty miles from the Canal, Malta fell a few days ago and there was a serious worry that Spanish dictator Francisco Franco had been emboldened by the failures of the British, that they were mobilizing and speaking to German officials about a renewed plan against Gibraltar, now officially the last bastion keeping the bulk of the Kreigsmarine out of the Mediterranean. Not only that, even the Italian Navy seemed more organized, the near conquering of Egypt must have brought them a much needed morale boost after the slip ups in the first days of the desert campaign.

Worst of all, Torch had been postponed until the New Year. Axis wolf packs and surface raiders were growing more and more slippery and there were reports of unidentified German fighter bombers harassing any convoy between the Channel and the North Irish Sea. It made sufficient build ups harder to create. Armies had to be brought over in more boats so that the raiders wouldn't kill five to six thousand men for every ship they sunk, and for a brief while, that had been occurring. It also did not help that the isolationists were growing wearier to the prospect of combating fascism directly in Europe. It was one thing to fight the Japanese, they had attacked American soil. It was quite another to waste lives in a European war fought in Africa of all places.

Of course, such talk would probably place the man standing next to him into a rage. He wanted blood and Japanese blood wasn't going to sate him. George S. Patton wanted to seal his legacy. To become the man who conquered the Desert Fox, as though hunting Poncho Villa and taking fifth place in the 1912 Olympics wasn't enough of a legacy.

Conversing briefly with the base commander, he led Eisenhower and Patton to the entrance into the aerodrome's terminal. It wasn't long before they spotted him. Surprisingly short considering the stories he had heard of him, stood General Bernard Montgomery, Conversing with a group of South African officers. To the distance stood a tall man, who looked as though he was his guard. Eisenhower and Patton shared a brief look before they stepped to meet the gathering. Their presence was immediately noticed. Montgomery came to attention, as did the South African men, welcoming the appearance of their new allies in the fight. Eisenhower returned the salute, Patton however did not. He simply lingered back and watched what was happening with a sharp eye.

Montgomery dismissed his hosts, who followed his order to the letter. Eisenhower quirked his lips, it must have been a Commonwealth thing.

"General Eisenhower, General Patton, Welcome to Pretoria," Montgomery greeted the Americans with a great receptive tone ringing in his accented voice. "I know that the trip was long, but I certainly hope that it wasn't a dangerous one."

Eisenhower chuckled slightly, shaking his head.

"Everything went according to plan, General Montgomery. I know that this is a real hassle to you. I just wanted to get the situation from a man standing in the field." Eisenhower apologized, much to the private disgust of Patton. "Torch will be landing in the New Year, I need to get a good sense how the East is doing."

The receptive look on Montgomery's face dimmed at the prospect of delay. It was not there for long however. He instead gestured to Dwight to follow him, which the American happily obliged.

"It's no problem at all, in fact it's a welcome breather being on secure soil, and please, Bernard is fine in private." Montgomery spoke as they moved down the long hall, trailed by the giant Englishman and Patton. "Besides, it's a good excuse to see if I can convince the South Africans can steam their men up the Suez and join us in the defence. Rommel has been battering us so hard that I now have to raid what supplies I can get from the Indian frontier. It's getting harder and harder to receive those supplies since the Garrison is being pressed by the Japs landing in Burma."

Bernard paused briefly and offered a slight smile.

"Tell me, what news from Guadalcanal?" he inquired out of Eisenhower.

"The last that I heard, the Marines are on the offensive against them. They're fighting hard, but the Japanese are stubborn men. It's not going to be an easy fight," Eisenhower told what he knew to the slightly dishevelled Englishman. He paused, adding. "My sympathies for what happened in Malta. It was a tough fight, but they threw everything they had at them. Germans are getting desperate I imagine."

The Englishman shook his head.

"I wouldn't say that they are desperate, more along the lines of growing brighter," Montgomery explained his lack of enthusiasm to the Americans. "The operation was primarily conducted by the Italians with German overseers. There was a unit of Germans on the island, including a full Waffen-SS division, Hitler's personal division apparently."

Eisenhower frowned slightly at the remark. He had read the reports of the political army of the so called _'Reich'_. Everyone said that they were once a rabble rousing paramilitary force that the Wehrmacht could barely control. Since Barbarossa, their reputation had shifted into the most frightening fighting force the Axis powers could throw at them in Europe, nearly as fanatical as Japanese apparently. Having them in the desert… it spelt trouble.

As the group entered the South African commandant offices to the aerodrome, the Englishman sighed wearily. Montgomery gestured back to the tall man, who remained at his side and at that point, not spoken a word. He simply stood there and inspected the much higher ranked Americans as though he was doubtful of them.

"This is our ever slippery Colonel David Stirling, Special Air Services," Montgomery introduced, offering the colonel a sly smile as he gestured to him.

The man known as David Stirling nodded and stepped forward, offering a salute and a shake of the hand which Eisenhower returned. He tried not to wince at the grip he had.

"Pleased to meet you Colonel," Eisenhower greeted as he let go of the hand and tensed it briefly to retain feeling. "I have heard nothing but praise for you despite the reversals of the past few months."

"Thank you General."

Montgomery patted the taller man on the back.

"Colonel Stirling managed to get off that rock in Malta before the jerries' tightened the noose," Montgomery boasted slightly.

David Stirling chuckled slowly; he shook his head as he turned to face Eisenhower, his arms now behind his back.

"General Montgomery is overstating what happened, though not to his fault. I have not been entirely forthcoming about it." Stirling spoke, catching a mild glare from the squat English Commander. "Things became a mess quickly. My men were captured in St. Angelo, captured us and a hundred civilians. The SS marched in and declared us spies and saboteurs… Which technically is true, but the civilians were labelled as partisans. They took no part in the conflict. We were all deemed fit for the firing squad."

Eisenhower frowned as he crossed his arms.

"The SS were going to execute all of them? And you as well?"

Stirling nodded.

"Yes, but then the queerest incident occurred." Stirling pressed on. The Afrika Korps defended us from them…. even attacked the SS."

"So they're dead?"

The SAS man nodded his head.

"Their leader, a man named Colonel Eichmann ordered one of the men executed," Stirling elaborated. The rest of the German platoon attacked, and then Rommel showed up... he heard what happen and flat out executed Eichmann. The SS men were next."

The room was silent as the three Generals took what the younger soldier said. Eisenhower blinked furiously. Rommel had ordered the execution of a midlevel officer? How could he have possibly gotten away with such a brash act of brutal justice? It seemed so odd… as though something was going on that they weren't aware of just yet.

"Rommel showed up?"

The voice the broke the silence was Patton, his gruff tone surprising the two men. His expression was almost a grin, as though he wanting to hear more about this. Unfortunately for him, Montgomery turned to the soldier and instantly silenced him. Apparently Stirling was discussing things that weren't supposed to be discussed just yet. They might have been allies, but America hadn't earned the respect of the battle weary English just yet. It was a sentiment that Eisenhower could respect, but not one that Patton enjoyed hearing.

"The rest can wait; Colonel Stirling and I must make our leave. We shall discuss this in the meantime the South Africans will show you to your rooms. Please, have drink if you must, our hosts are most generous.

Exchanging salutes, Eisenhower watched as Montgomery and Sterling leave the room, Eisenhower sat on the closest chair he could find and leaned back into his seat... Rommel executing rival military men, this was beyond comprehension. Perhaps this was as what Sterling said it had been a one off mistake made by this so called Desert Fox.

Cracking his fingers, he turned to the silent general sitting in on the couch, still reading the latest English reports.

"Stirling's tale... I don't know what to make of it." Eisenhower addressed the man. "Should we hand this over to Donovan's lot?""

Patton looked up to meet his superior in the eye.

"With all due respect, not a chance in hell," Patton flat out refuted. "I don't want this Rommel dead at some Nazis hand before I get to kick his teeth down his throat."

Eisenhower chuckled humourlessly.

"Well you might just get it." Eisenhower spoke plainly, surprising the older man. "I'm putting Fredendall through some evaluations. I'm not entirely convinced he's a capable commander... I don't want to embarrass him, but his men are unusually reserved about expressing their opinion on him. It usually means something is wrong."

Patton only snorted at Eisenhower's words. He clearly disagreed with the logic.

"Or that Fredendall keeps his men disciplined. Talking out of line to your Commanding Officer should not be tolerated in the slightest. Why you let it happen is beyond my understanding, just plain foolish."

Eisenhower coughed slightly, trying his best not to grin, and therefore, offend his old friend.

"Might I remind you that you are talking out of line to your commanding officer, _Georgie_?"

There were very few men who could get away with calling Patton _Georgie_. Dwight was fortunately on that list. Patton merely offered a fond grin as he realized that yes, he had been being only a touch insubordinate. Eisenhower let it slide. Patton's personality was naturally built around being headstrong and somewhat hypocritical. His men were not allowed to talk back, but he certainly was allowed to express any opinion, no matter how colourful it might have been.

"Fair enough, _Ike_." Patton muttered in a low apologetic tone that sounded unnatural and extremely forced.

Eisenhower wandered to the table of fine liquor left to them by their South African hosts. He grabbed two glasses as he smirked at Patton's sudden display of humility, a rare incident in such a boisterous free spirit.

"We expect our men to fight, possibly even die for the success of the campaign, _Georgie_." Eisenhower continued, as he poured Patton a drink. "We should at least extend them the courtesy of constructive criticism about their commander. A bad commander leads to a lot of dead men."

Clinking their whiskey glasses together, the two men drank to the safety of their men.

"You're right of course, just look at those two tea drinking limeys, Alexander and Montgomery, couple of useless goddamn idiots..." Patton growled as downed his drink in one, one hand gripping the edge of his pistol holster. "The English in general could have beaten that sonofabitch kraut back in '41 if they tried hard enough."

Eisenhower shot Patton a look of warning.

"Alexander underestimated his adversary as any good commander has done at one time or another, before his capture was a fine commander," he spoke softly to the much more blunt spoken man. "Montgomery is a solid, if dull man, doesn't get too excited. He's the only man who's keeping a cool head in the eastern African front. If you listened to a word he had said instead of glowering, you have noticed his troubles with gathering resources from the Indians, from South Africa, that right there is a determined man willing to stake his reputation to save his front."

Sipping his drink, he added. "The English are our allies; I will hope that your dissatisfaction with our friends will be kept to yourself."

Allowing a small crooked smile, Dwight offered to Patton, he simply slapping his shoulder.

"I know that you are starry eyed to fight Rommel, but I have to stress being careful. Montgomery mentioned that the RAF spotted Heinz Guderian in the desert," Eisenhower reminded Patton. "If those two are working in unison, then our work is about to be cut out for us... So when you land, I am going to have faith that you will work together with the English."

Patton could only grunt in affirmation. It was all Dwight needed from him.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

"Hello, Herr Hoch. I'm glad that you made your way back here."

It took him several hours to traverse the snows of Vienna with a limp until he found himself at the museum that had changed his life forever. He had no intention on being here. Fact was he was planning on stumbling to the nearest pub and drink until he was pickled, but muscle memory, perhaps it was fate told him that he was supposed to be here..

Joachim blinked at first. There stood Admiral Halid'Zorah on the snowy, crater damaged grounds of the museum; a sympathy look was granted, clearly directed to Joachim's state. Hoch stepped forward silently and joined the conspiring quarian. It seemed as though the man had been tracking him the moment he left the Langer home. He would not have been in the least bit surprised if that was the case.

"I think it is time we talk," Zorah addressed him, breaking their strained silence. "Will you join me?"

Halid gestured to the nearest bench, which Joachim agreed. He needed to sit down regardless of if they were to talk or not. They moved in silence as they approached the seats.

"I wish I could have done more to help you," Zorah spoke first, offering a regretful expression to be shown to the human. "You gave me one of your uniforms which sowed the seeds to this rebellion in the making, an act of kindness that could lead to saving Germany. You being held up by the Gestapo, I wish we could have gotten you out sooner." he paused briefly, adding. "Albert Speer had suggested he make a move, pick you up and take you in. I decided against it, for the good of my assignment. I am sorry."

Joachim did not react to the remark in the way the Admiral had expected. He thought it would have been rage. Instead it was a generous display of understanding.

"Zorah… you might be the first quarian that has fucked me over on purpose, and was brave enough to be up front about it," Joachim pointed out the, sad pathetic truth of the matter. "I _get_ following orders. I know about working in the dark. They wanted you to incite a rebellion and you obeyed."

Zorah shrugged nonchalantly.

"Yes, but that doesn't detract that I do not regret hiding the truth from you," Zorah spoke again, not blinking as he stared at the Waffen-SS man without blinking. "I wish I could have done it sooner and certainly not without Admiral Jarva's outburst. The truth is troublesome, the way he exposed you to it and Hanala was rash and it has set my work back significantly, all because he wanted you and Hanala apart, to see if his child would come back. He doesn't want to comprehend that the moment Hanala crashed on Earth she changed her course forever. There is no coming back from it.

"Set your work back?" the human repeated as he dug into his Greatcoat's pocket.

Zorah nodded as he watched Joachim light up his cigarette.

"Yes, my work on you," Halid explained as Joachim turned away to focus on smoking. "You by now can imagine how I feel about the masters you serve. What Gerd von Rundstedt saw in you - you being a bright young man - is still an opinion we hold. I did not want Admiral Jarva doing what he did, it was... embarrassingly short sighted."

Joachim nodded slowly.

"And what about the Gestapo?" he wondered aloud, his voice high and accusing as he stared at the quarian next to him, smoke bellowing from his nose. "I spent two damn months being pumped for information I was unaware I had leaked. Kaltenbrunner insisted that Heydrich and Himmler believed that I leaked information on this extermination."

Zorah frowned slightly; he seemed to have been debating what was to say about it. He did however appear genuinely remorseful, but knowing quarians, he wasn't going to quit on trusting what he thought they were feeling. It was likely a ruse.

"That was our fault," the Admiral explained. "I lost my temper and told Heydrich I knew what he was doing. The humans believed it to be you had figured it out and told both Jarva and I, We gave them no answer as to how we knew."

Despite finding out that the two months he spent being tortured was because of a coward and a rash decision on Zorah's part, Joachim still somehow managed to chuckle darkly at the concept as he pulled the butt of his cigarette out of his mouth. He leaned back into his seat as Zorah appeared deep in thought.

"Your plan is to arrest my friend for simply being a part of a million man apparatus." He reminded the quarian conspirator. "I spent months being tortured because none of you advocated for me. What makes you think I'll help anymore?"

"Your word…"

Joachim shot the quarian a grin that displayed just how little he respected the strange moment of idealism offered by the older Admiral.

"That was before I was tortured." Joachim pointed out to the Admiral in a low growl. "Keeping my mouth shut and helping you betray my family are two entirely separate things."

Zorah blinked.

"You... you didn't say anything?" he repeated, almost surprised that Joachim id not crack. He did not need words from the human was telling him the truth. Sighing, he took a seat on the snow covered bench, followed by Joachim, who tightened his coat around him.

"I know that you have your grievances with the two Jarva's, and quite understandably so, but this war is going to get worse." Zorah pressed on after his pause. "It's your duty to protect the people over one man desire to press this war to the breaking point. Stalingrad... It will just be the first. Germany is a powerful state, but facing the world? You must follow Rundstedt's lead."

The Admiral went silent before reaching up to carefully patting Joachim's shoulder. He seemed worried that the human would attack. Joachm decided he was just not in the mood to do so.

"On the record, I wish to, again apologize. Hanala'Jarva had said you could be trusted." Halid continued, watching Joachim's head turn to look him over for mentioning the name of the quarian he was fond of. "For a while, I did not listen, your rank in the SS clouded by judgement on you. I also do not to explain how much a security risk you are. As I imagine, you now know just how close you are to the watchful eyes of men like Himmler, Heydrich and Kaltenbrunner."

Joachim nodded, frowning slightly, he could not help himself.

"How is she?" he wondered aloud. He asked the question more to himself than to the quarian.

"Hanala'Jarva?" Halid questioned knowingly, before Joachim even asked him for an answer. "She misses you. She does not say it but it is clear. Life amongst her people has grown dull. She says everyone is too cohesive…. She misses the fight and opposition you present her.

Joachim stubbed out his cigarette.

"I see…" He spoke as he stood up from his seat and brushed off his coat. "I think I shall check in with Langer."

Zorah nodded as he too stood.

"Of course, I must return to the fleet tonight," he murmured lowly. He paused, glanced to Joachim and added. "Would you like me to tell her I saw you?"

Joachim stood there for a good long moment as seriously debated what he was being offered, a chance to reveal some of the tension between himself and Hanala. He offered the quarian a slight smile. Why would he do that? Relieved that bitch he loved of any of the guilt that she so rightly deserved to suffer from? Slowly, He shook his head.

"No."

With that said, Joachim left, leaving Zorah surprised at his indifference.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

Hanala opened her eyes, pulling more of her blankets over her cold body. She had forgotten how cold it was to be alone, especially when for so many months she had a human serving as her bead comforter and a heater.

Two months. It had been over two months since she felt any emotion other than self-disgust, two months of feeling numb to everything and everyone. Food stopped tasting like anything. Her mood fluctuated out of her control; rising as dangerous as a krogan to sinking to a near crippling depression.

It was the guilt, the terrible, all-consuming guilt she felt. Her deception had led to Joachim ending up in the custody of monsters, doing Ancestors knows what they had done to him, trying to break him until he spilled the secret he was now forced to share.

It was eating away at her mental state, leaving her prone to violent mood swings. Looking back on it now, she did not want to insult her Brother into submission. She loved Rael, she really did, but between her guilt for lying to a man she had come to love, her genuine feelings of rage and hatred directed to her manipulative Father and witnessing a deportation and an eventual liquidation of Polish Jews, everything was just a foggy mess of emotions which Hanala had come to expertly lock away and keep under control.

Silently, she slid herself over to Joachim side of the bed. She imagined that he was there with her, warming her up, telling her that everything was going to be fine, that he was going to be fine, that they were going to be fine. She wished that he could lie to her about such things. It would make her feel so much safer. All she wanted was that musky scent of his with a trace of cigarette smoke interweaved. His arms wrapped around her.

Hanala rolled on to her back, her eyes stared dully at the roof of the Captain's Quarters.

Joachim had no intentions on forgiving her.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

 **Changes: Massive clean-up.**

 **Sorry for the delay, thanks for sticking to it.**


	4. December 20th, 1942

**Chapter Four: December 20th, 1942**

 **...**

To say it took a lot of convincing to get both Gerd von Rundstedt and Albert Speer to take a two hour excursion to the moon would be understating it.

Speer was by far easier to convince. between his youth and his unusual, bordering on unnatural levels of curiosity was only tempered by a tad display of reluctance, something that as expected by Halid'Zorah if he was to work with a race that was only just touching on the practical applications of rocketry and jet engines. Rundstedt by far was harder to convince. It was a nightmare trying to get him to use quarian technology, it was harder than pulling krogan teeth to get him onto a shuttle and take him to meet Alaan in person.

It was supposed to have been a surprise, a sort of belated birthday gift to the Generalfeldmarschall, but unfortunately he had to spoil it in order to convince them that they would be on their Moon for very good reason.

"Welcome to the _Compassionate Action_ , your new factory," Halid addressed the two men staring wondrously at the elegant design of the improvised factory built to fuel the war effort on Earth. Speer and Von Rundstedt turned back, both of them impressed.

"The _Compassionate Action_ is a stripped down dreadnought that was critically damaged and abandoned by the asari after the krogans crippled it in the uprising," Zorah explained to the two of them as they moved through the ship. "We salvaged it last year and had no idea what to do with it until now. It was most likely going to become another food producer until the two of you told me your predicament with forced labour and you're more recent problems, the Waffen-SS being granted first priority in armaments."

The humans did not reply to what the Admiral serving as tour guide was saying. Frowning, he turned back to Speer and Von Rundstedt were clearly still in a state of shock from both the inability to comprehend they were on the Earth moon and the alien built vessel. Zorah had to be patient. They were , after all, the first humans to have been standing on their moon. Speer turned back, his hand reaching up and tugging off his peaked cap, resting it under his arm.

"This is... beyond impressive, Admiral," Speer spoke on behalf of the two of them. "Does this now mean your people now know what is happening? Have they been informed of the plan you are proposing?"

Halid shook his head.

"No. Not until the deadline for the recall to the fleet have been met," Zorah explained to the two of them. "We are converting our galactic currencies to gold and buying what technologies we can. Once we make our presence known, the Mass Relay travel will be banned for public use and monitored by our military."

Speer quirked his lip, unable to believe what he was hearing apparently.

"So you are keeping a thousand or so factory workers in the dark," Speer guessed, squinting curiously as he paid attention to the noise of constructing occurring no more than a few dozen meters from them.

Halid merely offered the Armaments Minister a smile and beckoned the two men to follow. Together the trio wandered through the long winding corridors of the ship, though abandoned a thousand years ago was still elegant and sleek, preserved since the time of the krogan overwhelming the galaxy. Something brought upon by salarians uplifting them. Halid was not blind to the irony; here he was guiding the destiny of humanity to fit his people's agenda. He could have only hoped that when the deed was done, when Rannoch was in quarian hands once more, they would not have to sterilize Humanity like the salarians did to the krogan.

The group wandered into what was once the crew deck. There from one end of the stripped shit to the other were assembly lines, on them Panzer chassis being worked over by automated machine wielders. Halid glanced back to the two men, Speer looked as though the human tradition of Christmas had arrived early, Rundstedt had the gist of it, but was not quite sure what the machines were.

"Automated assembly lines have reduced the quarian workforce down to supervisors and quality assurance," Halid explained to the Generalfeldmarschall. He looked up and noticed a quarian in work clothing approaching the Admiral. He smiled slightly and gestured to the approaching man, adding. "This is Captain Yagar'Haevjar vas Compassionate Action. This is Generalfeldmarschall Gerd von Rundstedt and Minister Speer."

The quarian, suited due to his lack of time amongst the humans and therefore, frightened of infection, offered Rundstedt a nod. He turned to Speer and appeared much more excited by the younger enigma standing before him.

"I have heard all about you, Minister Speer," Captain Haevjar greeted the man with great enthusiasm. "We are in the same line of work, you know. You and I are going to be in quite a lot of contact from now on... Come along, I'll show you the finished product."

Speer and Von Rundstedt glanced to one another; they followed the excited engineer, who led them through the assembly lines and through the sliding doors at the opposite end of the Factory. They soon enough found themselves in the docking bay and before them, a lone tank waited for them.

It was longer than the Tiger; it had many more angles than the stubby beast heavy tank had. The vehicle… It was flat out attractive looking, but that was a part of the deception. It would have nearly the same kick as a Tiger and none of the weaknesses.

"I received the blueprints and have fed them into the factory," The Captain spoke as he stepped in front of the Panzer, adding. "As you see, your very first quarian built Panzer V Panther Tank... take a look."

Speer nodded and before anyone knew it, he was up on the tank's turret, peering inside of the hatch, next to him was the quarian captain, standing there as though he was expecting praise. Speer pulled his head out and nodded to himself.

"It's to the schematics," Conceded Speer, "The Fuhrer was insistent on making this vehicle almost as big as the Tiger… I had asked for this tank to be built lighter."

"This tank is lighter minister Speer. It just does not look like it," The Captain argued, his words earning Speer's attention. "At first we played around the prototype you sent to us and ran it hard around the ship's cargo bay. Did not take the quality testers long to notice that the driveshaft design for it made the tank a liability in combat. We redesigned it."

The Captain leaped off the Panzer and moved to its stern, he unhinged the access port to the engine and turned back to Speer, who was now sitting on the turret.

"We also had to refit the engine with a much more efficient stabilizer wrapping, less likely to be knocked out of place if amine were to be run over. The engine block was found to be too heavy by our standards, therefore we have decided against the use of cast iron in favour of the original aluminum," he pressed on. "The engines also overheated due to it being so insulated against flooding. The fire risk was very real; we have taken steps to install additional ventilation shafts that will elevate the problems."

Slamming the metal plates back over the Engine, Captain Haevjar kicked one of the steel wheels in the track.

"Finally, the tracks... honestly, there is not much we can do about them," he admitted with a mild grin behind his clear faceplate. "It's a silly design, but your Panzer men were trained to handle it. I am going to defer to them."

From behind Zorah a cough emerged from Rundstedt. He was an infantry general. His interest in tanks was nowhere near the level of his comrades. From above them was Speer, rubbing his chin as he silently brooded.

"Lots of critic," The Minister remarked to no one in particular. "It makes me wonder if I press for mass production of Panzer IV's or Tiger's instead."

The Captain looked at the Minister, clearly befuddled.

"Perhaps I was not clear," He said. "All of the original issues with the tank were something that was simple enough to repair. Considering the level of technology that Admiral Zorah has told me your world subsides in, this tank... it's an absolute gem. If I was servicing in an armour corps like my grandfather's grandfather, I would want to do so in a tank like this."

Staring at the Panzer underneath him for a good long while, Speer finally nodded in agreement; he was joined by Gerd who was walking circles around the vehicle. The Generalfeldmarschall nodded, not entirely as optimistic as the head of the improvised factory. Glancing to the bemused Admiral, Haevjar stepped forward, his hand banging hard the sloped frontal plate armour.

"This steel sloped plate is a ruse. Underneath it is high quality self-sustaining electric reactive armour that will displace the effects of shaped charges, all the way up to the main gun of the Tiger. It will not need to be maintained by the crews, nor will it be noticed," Haevjar spoke up enthusiastically about his own work. He paused, noticed the impressed expression on Speer's face, adding. "Let's get this straight. You would not be invincible, but it'll make the tanks more capable of absorbing damage. It's the closest thing that your people will get to kinetic barriers for quite some time."

The sound of footsteps approached them. Admiral Zorah, still mildly grinning turned back and instantly froze in place, his smile forming into a brief look of hereditary fear. It was a geth, its headlamp focused on him as the platform stopped moving. Zorah turned away and noticed the Captain was staring at the machine as though it was one of his men.

"Creator Haevjar, steel supplies are down to eighty one percent," The machine prattled to its master. "We have produced two hundred thirty seven units in the past two solar days."

Nodding, Haevjar turned back to the machine standing there blankly.

"Enough for the time being, move on to the ME-262. Three hundred units, then I want those assault rifles back on track," The Captain ordered the machine. He turned back to Speer and bowed his head slightly, adding. "If you will excuse me, it's a pleasure to meet you again, Speer, Rundstedt."

The Captain wandered off with the machine in toe. It was not long before the Captain stopped and turned back to the men.

"Oh… where do you want them landed?" Haevjar inquired curiously. He paused and smirked, his voice growing bright as he added. "You know... With a little more work, I could convert the Panther tank over to Hydrogen cells and Solar, install a VI programs and drop them into Moscow, Washington and London... would save on manpower..."

Sighing at the enthusiasm displayed by the Captain and the very interested expression on the Generalfeldmarschall's face, Halid held up his hand to silence him.

"That will be quite enough, I will handle the details, you're dismissed."

The Captain nodded, somewhat put off by the Admiral's lack of warmth to his sudden and daring plan. Zorah though had to admit, he liked the concept, but the thought gethlike Panther tanks would keep him up at night. He turned back to Speer who was staring curiously at the platform as it retreated.

"What was that machine?" Speer inquired as the Captain and the geth platform retreated from view.

Halid frowned.

"Geth, though it would be quite the stretch to call them geth," Halid spoke distastefully, finally regaining his controls over his fear. "They are geth platforms controlled by a simple quarian controlled VI. They are geth in the most simplest of functions, before my ancestors started tinkering with their intelligence. I guess the captain employs them for the finesse work of your weapons."

Speer nodded, Von Rundstedt on the other hand knew exactly why Zorah was so unwilling to speak on the subject.

"So what do you need for this plant to continue operation? Raw materials?" the old soldier asked.

Zorah shook his head.

"No, it would raise too many questions as to where the resources are going. We have everything we need," The Admiral reassured the humans. "If you cannot capture the major players, civil war will spiral out of hand. The SS will turn around and hit the forces involved in the conspiracy with immense firepower that you do not have on your hands just yet. You cannot divert men from the East, or men from Africa. Those two fronts have the bulk of the equipment. Having this manufacturing plant will elevate any equipment issues you might find yourself in during the take over of the Reich. Now come, we'll figure out the delivery point.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

With the capture of Malta fresh on his mind, Utala'Falan had found Erwin Rommel in extremely jubilant spirits as he marked Alexandria, German controlled Egypt

Malta had been a blight that hampered his supply and medical ship routes to and from Italy. The only thing he had to worry about now was what lay beyond the Suez and the last island bastion in Mediterranean, Gibraltar. The island perched at the mouth of the sea was such a massive hassle that Rommel had been making serious inquiries into annexing Vichy French and begin conducting an all-out bombing campaign against the island. As reliable as the Regia Marina had become to him, the U-boats poaching the Royal Navy deep behind enemy lines was his new priority. The navy had begun commerce raiding, taking Italian and German vessels in some cases and deliver his supplies to the English in what little of Egypt the British held.

It was not to happen however, the collaborating French wanted to hold their land, their way. It was what little pride they had left in defending the lands mercifully granted to the by their German superiors. OBW, led by Gerd von Rundstedt happened to agree with him. Though relations between Von Rundstedt, a relic from the past, but admirably uncompromising logical and Rommel, a forward thinking commander who was somewhat brash were getting better. Von Rundstedt sided with the French for the time being. The Luftwaffe was far too fragile to send against a garrison that size.

Then again, there was always quarian intervention, which was decidedly ruled out when Utala approached Jarva and Zorah. Frying the Malta garrison pulse charge, Zorah felt that one time could be shrugged off by the English. A second time against an even greater strategically important island would lead to many questions being asked by the humans they were working against. Alaan on the other hand was against first hand intervention, at least until the political party was flushed out, their political army destroyed before they worked against the English openly.

Speaking of political soldiers, the door to Rommel's room opened up and suddenly, Utala'Falan had found herself looking up to stare into the dark eyes belonging to Rommel's adjutant to the SS, Joachim Peiper. His eyes narrowed as he stared suspiciously at the woman.

"Admiral Falan," was all he said before leaving Falan.

Exhaling and pushing the arrogant little Nazi out of her mind as she pushed open the doors to Rommel's room. Falan had to admit that she had actually come to hate Peiper. There was a smug pride to him that made Rommel look modest by comparison.

' _-Working in unison, Manstein, the mastermind of this operation is commanding General's Guderian and Hoth's pincer attack against the Soviet savages caught the Asiatic hordes off guard. Local correspondent's report that the lead elements of the counterattack are now fifteen kilometres away from the outskirts of Stalingrad, where the glorious Sixth Army makes its stand in the bulwark of Bolshevism...'_

Allowing the radio blaring to become simple buzzing in the back of her mind, Utala turned to focus properly on Rommel, before him, a stack of papers that were not official German army orders. It was clear that he was writing something as the pen in his hand did not stop. His expression was unusually stern in appearance. He was concentrating, Falan had half a mind to turn around and leave if not for her own curiosity getting the best of her.

"What are you doing?" she inquired.

Rommel peered over his reading glasses to glance at her.

"I'm writing."

Utala nodded as Rommel turned back and stepped closer to the Field Marshal. Her hands touched against the papers as she inspected the first page which had but only two words. Falan tried not to smirk. The title was for a book, though he was creative in the battlefield, he sure as hell was not artistic outside of it.

 _"Panzer Attack…"_ Falan spoke the title with enough amusement to catch Rommel's attention. She paused, blinked and added. "You're placing all your theories into a book... for your enemies to read and use against you."

Bemused by her disbelief, Rommel grabbed the mass of papers from out of Falan's weak grasp. He shoved them back into his briefcase as he set down his pen to turn to focus on the Admiral now hovering over him.

"It will be released at the end of war, just as Infantry Attacks were released at the end of the last war," he explained as he sipped his glass of water, his eyes scanning his manuscript. "With any luck my theories will be obsolete for future combat use against us. It will serve a something interesting to read, nothing more. How primitive man fought war before the quarians came and raised us to a new level of consciousness."

Falan pursed her lips and tried not to snort at the biting sarcasm in the Generalfeldmarschall's voice. Despite his attitude, Falan knew that Rommel was being modest.

"So... essentially this is just another thing to secure your legacy?" Utala guessed, her tone amused as Rommel stiffened and glanced up to her.

"You speak of pride as though it was a bad thing," he pointed out, his voice less than enthused by her observation. "Is there something wrong with that? A man needs a legacy. I imagine long before that mess on your world, the quarian people were prideful, not so now it seems."

The quarian blinked. They were now treading dangerously to the topic about the geth. It was a subject she did not want to bring up.

"So, anyways... What is your family like?"

Utala blinked yet again at the question she had asked. It was both random and personal. She had always tried to keep Rommel's personal life his own business. The last thing she wanted was to make him uncomfortable about such things. He usually left his personal life back in Germany, preferring to remain professional out in the field.

Falan noticed Rommel's eyes squinted as he continued to write. It took several long moments before he finally set his pen down to look up to her.

"If you are asking to meet them, I'm going to have to recommend you wait until your people reveal themselves," he reminded her.

Utala flushed slightly, the last thing she wanted to do was to meet them for the time being. If things were awkward between Erwin and her, she could only imagine the vast scorn that his wife would have for her being there, thinking of her husband in less than professional ways...

"My son is still young and impressionable. He seems to think that his future lies joining the SS thanks to his membership in the Hitlerjugend," He stated offhandedly. He paused, and with a much more delicate tone, added. "My wife, we married more out of expectation then anything. I will be honest; I do care quite a bit about her though."

Utala tilted her head.

"Though not enough to find an interest in… this… us… whatever this is."

The slightly older human quirked his lips at the remark offered by the woman attempting to sound casual about referring to the two of them in a nonprofessional nature. His pen was set down, his fingers laced together as his looked up to her, his eyes inspecting her stance, question her resolve that hid her desire to lean down to kiss him like she had done only days before.

"Considering your age, I must have assumed that you were in a relationship, that you were not being faithful as well," was all Rommel had to say on the subject.

Utala's nostril's flustered as Rommel's words made her suddenly both very offended and extremely self-aware. She was freely displaying an attraction to a married man and she was not risking anything either. She paid no mind to Rommel as he stood from his seat; instead her head was staring at the ground.

"I am going to forget that comment on the basis of how terribly offensive I find that assumption to be," Falan managed to get out, her words near delusional. "No, Erwin, I am not married. Being forty-eight does not mean I have had time to marry someone..."

Falan trailed off as she felt Rommel's hand gripping her forearm. She looked up and stared at Generalfeldmarschall. His expression was still stern, but there was a spark in his eyes, a kindness that rarely presented itself for public. Utala bit her lower lip and simply stood there, unable to move under his intense inspection.

Honestly, she had no idea what to do about him, she liked him of course, but he was a married man, there were far too many things to consider before she could simply admit that the kiss she gave him was not a onetime thing, made by a quarian impressed that he would stand up to tyranny when many of his contemporaries would not do the same.

Perhaps she would go speak to Admiral Jarva's daughter about this issue; perhaps she would know how to help her handle this. Though, then again it might not have been a good idea. Hanala'Jarva had basically lost everything she once was before her crash landing on earth all thanks to her intimate interaction with humanity and that man in particular.

"I-... what did Peiper want?"

Her words seemed the interaction with the Generalfeldmarschall. Rommel let go of her arm and turned away to find his glass of water; a faint smirk crossed his lips as he left her flustered.

"I have been invited for a dinner with Herr Sepp Dietrich," Rommel stated as he sat back down, crossing one leg over the other as he leaned back into his seat. "Apparently I have not made much in the way of time for our newest addition. I would have thought that my lack of interaction would have been a clear enough message."

Holding his glass out, to the Admiral disguised as an Oberst, Falan hid her resigned expression as she took the glass and went to fill it up from the pitcher in the corner of the room that held a tray of a variety of local foods he had bought. She glanced over to Rommel; he had turned back to his manuscript his pen back in his hand as he wrote.

"I better not come, I might say something," Utala mused as she returned to his side, setting the glass down in front of the human. "That and I am a woman. Peiper always looks like he's going to have a brain aneurism when I'm offering you advice that you take over his. It must be a grievous shame."

Rommel glanced up to her, his eyebrows perched.

"If I did not know better, I would think that you are gloating," Rommel replied to her, his tone sarcastic as he inspected the quarian.

Rommel turned back to his writings, leaving Falan flustered by his honesty.

...

* * *

...

The artillery barrage from just outside of the apartment block was unnerving, but Christian Bohr would have endured artillery another round if the noise of the falling shells was not replaced by the patriotic Soviet roar, indicating that the commissioners had managed to round up a new wave to hit the hundred or so burnt out Germans in their improvised garrison.

A Hauptmann named Brandis had organized this unit from remnants of the exterior defensive perimeter of the pocket. Bohr and his men had hid the edge of the westernmost part of the city until they were found by him. So, like good German soldiers, they followed him to the relative safety provided in the residential districts in the centre of the city, amongst the Soviet citizens that were too entrenched and frightened to rise up against the near primitive rage the Germans had from being trapped alongside them.

From out of the oily smoke the Soviets came, a thousand voices roaring and clamouring through the wreckage and craters. The entrenched men of the Heer opened up with everything in their possession, from pistols to captured Bazookas, which the Soviets must have bought from the America.

Christian shot a man clambering over a burnt out T-34 trapped in rubble and reloaded, firing over and over again at the seemingly endless wave of Russians. With wild eyes he turned back to several machine gunners loading their weapons.

 _"Ivan pushing through the courtyard! Get those DP's in place!"_

The two unidentified soldiers obliged, rushing to push their two captured light machine guns out of the windows and fired away on the Russians below though. Next to him, the short wave radio crackled to life, it was Brandis, and he sounded close to having a breakdown.

 _ **"-SOVIET PROBING TEAM HAS BREECHED THROUGH THE UNDERGROUND. BOHR, TAKE YOUR TEAM TO INVESTIGATE!"**_

Christian fired one more rifle round into the mass outside before turning to gather his squad. Hammer, refilling his flamethrower extremely carefully as he tucked his pistol back into his belt, Oster, who had abandoned his Sniper rifle in favour of a MP-40 he had discovered left on the body of a Heer NCO, Fuhrmann was curled up under the window nearest to him, he was reloading his PPSH.

He did not need to issue an order as he stood. The depleted squad moved out through the gun and grenade fire. The window where Fuhrmann had been hiding behind exploded. Thankfully all of them were in the hallways leading to the staircase, past the rushing around of supply personnel rearming the defenders with what meagre supplies they could scrounge.

Boots stamped in front of the squad, rushing towards them. Before Bohr realized it, a small group of Soviets was standing in the hallway, firing wildly until the Germans were forced to die into various rooms to lean out, returning their fire. How in the hell did these Russian assholes get so deep into the Garrison so quickly?

Bohr decided then and there, the Soviets must have been ghosts. It was the only explanation.

The Bolshevik officer roared to his men. It did not take a genius for Bohr to understand what he was telling his men. Germans above them, kill them until they were dead.

Well, fortunately for Bohr, Kurt Hammer had decided enough was enough. He shoved past the squad that was returning fire moving from room to room so that the Soviets paying attention to the three Germans firing on them and not on him. Finally, Hammer disappeared for much longer. Bohr hoped that he was not dead.

He was not as the hall around the Russians was suddenly and completely engulfed in oily flames. With their firing ceasing to a halt and their screaming replaced the noise, Bohr led the others down the hallway, through the flames, pausing briefly to put the Soviets out of their misery as they wringed on the ground.

By the time they go to where Hammer was supposed to be, he was no longer there, instead he was down the flight of stairs by one level, his pistol cracking as he fired on the Russians advancing. The Russians returned fire, forcing Hammer to slump on the stairs in an attempt to find cover.

 **"GET BACK HERE, HAMMER!"**

Not listening to the Feldwebel's desperate order, Hammer pushed himself up, his face nearly animalistic, he looked close to insanity. The Unteroffizier then pushed the nozzle of his flamethrower over the balcony edge and blasted the nearest Russians, who were on the first steps of the staircase with wave of fire that torched the Russians, the stairs, the walls, everything.

The Russians screamed in the tar and gasoline fire that boiled their skin and muscle from of their bones. The lobby now quiet, Hammer stood up breathed a low mirth filled laugh as he watched the men die slowly. Bohr closed his eyes and turned away, he absolutely hated Flamethrowers. It was one thing to shoot a man, but to douse them in flames that were by-product of a sticky flammable substance? Ghastly was an understatement.

With the fuel tank on his back now emptied and he had no reserves left in the Garrison. , he pushed it off his back and retrieved a singed Russian rifle left by the Russians and re-joined the rest of his slack jawed squad.

Bohr was the first one who focused. He did his best not to shoot Hammer, who was clearly becoming more and more a liability. It was as though he wanted to die. Calmly, carefully, the Feldwebel turned around to face Oster and Fuhrmann, he tried to ignore the smell of burning human flesh.

"Oster, take Fuhrmann down there."

Oster nodded, glancing to Fuhrmann. The two of them nearly bolted down the staircase, dodging the fire and bodies as they went to secure the lobby while they waited for the other two to join them, leaving Bohr staring down his second in command, who was heaving hard. He looked amusingly at the burning bodies left in his wake.

Before Hammer knew it, the butt of a Mauser rifle slammed into his gut, dropping the Unteroffizier to the ground. The Unteroffizier heaved and rolled over onto his back, only to find himself staring into the barrel of the rifle. Behind it stood Bohr, his expression cool.

"Act the hero again and I'll kill you myself," Bohr warned him, his voice soft despite the topic at hand. "I said I was not going to fail Mann and get everyone killed, but you're making my promise very difficult to keep. So get your shit together."

Hammer did not reply, instead he simply allowed Christian to lean down and take his hand, dragging him back to his feet. The Unteroffizier shoved past Bohr with a sneer as he limped down to join Oster and Fuhrmann. Bohr sighed, wishing Mann was here.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

"I cannot believe I had to walk into that, I get it that she was young, you could have at least gone to her place instead of our dorm. I did not want to see that…Well… not you at least!"

"Come on, you must have liked enough to use it as proof you knew me. My God, I got in trouble for that when Fuhrmann said it out loud."

The two of them were drinking out in the parking lot, Joachim, sitting on the pavement, Mann, wrapped in Joachim's greatcoat like a blanket to shield him from the chilly darkening skies. Both of them were taking swigs from the bottle brought by Joachim as though they were school kids again, swapping stories of the old days, back when the two of had fun, beating on other children, roaming the streets doing everything an adolescence without direction would do.

He was grateful that Fuhrmann had dragged Joachim along. He might not have gotten the answers he wanted, but the trip had helped Joachim out immensely. It felt good to have been in Mann's company. It was a reminder of a time before he ended up in Langer's hands, before he was moulded into the man he was now... Mann had been his best friend, the only person in his life who could challenge him, the only person Joachim ever really feared to be better than he was.

Mann might have been following him, but Mann was by far more intelligent then he let on, he was just unwilling to exploit his own strengths as though it was a bad thing. It must have been his family that centred him, his loyalties stayed with them, they were the foundation of what made Helmut Mann a good man in his later life. Joachim did not have such a thing. Sure he was nearly a Langer, but as Gerald pointed out to him, he really was not. Joachim did not have much in the way of family; he did not have people humbling him. There were only to types in his life: people against him or educating him.

"How has the SS been treating you?"

Joachim turned back, sipping the whiskey bottle and passing it back. He smiled as bright as he could through his still pretty mashed up face.

"Like family until recently," He carefully admitted, knowing Mann was too smart not to notice his state. "We had a bit of a miscommunication. Everything has been sorted out however."

Mann nodded his head and handed the bottle back to him. An uncomfortable silence fell between the two of them.

"I have lost touch with the old gang, Helmut," Joachim decided to change the topic at hand. "How is everyone?"

Exhaling his cigarette and painfully cough, Mann chuckled with no humour in it.

"Most of them are dead," He stated flatly to the Waffen-SS officer sitting next to him. "Wolfgang in the Netherlands, Viktor in Norway, Karl and Peter in Russia... Fridolein is in a U-boat somewhere in the North Atlantic; and Jans had a spot of bad luck in Africa. He's sitting in a British POW camp..."

Ignoring the burning sensation in his throat as he downed his whiskey and past the bottle to the wheelchair bound Heer soldier. Joachim knocked off his cap to the cement and snow next to him, his hand running over his shaven head.

"That's... fucked."

Helmut nodded gravelly as he took a drink and passed it along to Joachim.

"Not everyone had it easy like you, Hoch," the wounded man gasped in a teasing tone. "Over six feet, capable of tracing your blood back two hundred years..." He trailed off, his eyes glancing to Joachim as he added. "How is your mother?"

Joachim set the bottle on the road pavement in front of them. He looked up to Helmut, his lips forming a dizzy smile as he tried to form words despite him already being pretty buzzed.

"The British got her back in February," he admitted. Noticing the suddenly sympathy forming on Helmut's face, he added. "We had not spoken since I was eighteen... She will not be missed."

Helmut frowned at his lack of concern.

"Still... I'm sorry," he mumbled. "You might not have liked her, but getting killed by a bomber raid is not a way anyone should have to go."

Joachim nodded his head, accepting the Leutnant's sympathy. He could not blame Mann for feeling like that. If the position was reversed, he too would have probably found the lack of sympathy for his own mother rather troublesome. Mann reached out, his hand touching the Obersturmbannführer's shoulder briefly before letting go. They fell silent and together, the two of them drank a few more times each as Joachim debated what to say to his old friend, who was, according to Fuhrmann, looking to extract men who were forbidden to leave that Hellish city known as Stalingrad.

"So what do you plan on doing now?" Joachim spoke up, deciding to bite the bullet. Mann shrugged as he re-tightened Hoch's jacket over him.

"Finding a way to get my men out of Stalingrad," he said as though it was the most obvious thing ever conceived, as though his mission to free his comrades from that icy hell would be a simple task.

Joachim found himself feeling terrible, he knew that this was why he was here. He was to give Mann a dose of reality. Mann needed to know that talk about retreat in Stalingrad amongst the Heer was about to become treason, the crime of defeatism was quickly becoming a potentially capital offence.

"Stalingrad is fucked, Mann, there is absolutely nothing you or I can do about it, so get it out of your head right now, for everyone's sake," Joachim flat out stated to the Leutnant, watching him wince. "Look... If they do not get out through the Manstein offensive, they will not get out of it, period. Their survival is in their hands now, not yours. They got you out of that nightmare. Throwing your life away on some half thought out plot will be a slap in the face to them."

Mann looked close to protesting the words, but he was either too drunk or too much in pain to believe in his delusions any longer.

"I know..." he confessed softly. "I know I need to be realistic about their survival and I have to hope Manstein promises will happen. They're... They're like family."

 _ **"Leutnant!"**_

Interrupted from his thoughts about his brothers left behind in that hell, Mann growled at the Swabian tone shouting out his rank.

"Shit... it's the ward administrator," Mann muttered under his breath.

Joachim glanced over to the direction Mann was pointing to. Sure enough was a stout, balding man with a thin moustache walking towards them; he looked almost out of breath, his double chin flapping in the wind.

"You, Leutnant, drinking out in public!" the bastard roared as he approached the two men. "If you were not in that wheelchair I would have you Court Marsh-."

Without the drinks in him Joachim had a quick temper, drinking only made it ten times worse. Joachim stood up from his seat and stormed towards the pudgy medical officer. His hand reached out and grabbed the middle aged man by the front of his jacket. The bespectacled man both froze and shook with terror as the heavily carried, easily a foot taller Waffen-SS officer glared down at him.

"One more insult… one more word and I'll have your fat ass on the next train to Russia, you god forsaken desk rider!" Joachim growled, looking down on the fat man, his teeth bared.

The old Stabarzt looked up to the SS Obersturmbannführer's collar, then up to his eyes with wide and clear fear for what Joachim was threatening him with. Stammering an apology to Mann, Hoch let him retreat back into the safety of the hospital.

The moment he left, Joachim threw up his head and burst into a rare controllable fit of laughter. It was not long before he was joined by Mann, who laughed far less, his injury probably making it too painful to join in.

"That felt… sooo very good..." Joachim laughed as he sat back down against his car. "It has been a while since I threw my weight around."

It was the truth, since he had gotten back from Gestapo custody; he had felt nothing but shame about everything, his humiliation at the hands of the quarians... by Hanala, his abuse, Langer telling him where he stood. Sure he might have shouted at an old fat man until he nearly had a heart attack, but it felt like a small piece of which he was back, that perhaps it would all come back to him sooner rather than later.

Mann's hand fell onto his shoulder. Joachim looked past from the bottle he was drinking from. Helmut was grinning widely.

"You know, Joachim..." He mused aloud. "I could really get used to having an Obersturmbannführer as back up."

The two men forgot about their woes as they laughed like old times.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

"How is your steak, Herr Generalfeldmarschall?"

While Erwin Rommel savoured the flavour a perfect medium rare texture the top grade cut of meat in front of him. He was not about to admit it to the commander of the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler, Joseph 'Sepp' Dietrich.

"I have not had steak in years," Rommel admitted to the SS man. It was true, with an exception to his hospitalization; he had tried his best to eat the same rations as his men. It was in good taste, any decent commander would have done the same as he.

"One of the many perks of joining the call," Dietrich boasted in between mouthfuls of his dinner. "We run in far different circles than the Heer. We work harder and, thus, reward ourselves better."

Rommel squinted his nose and casted a careful look at Dietrich.

"I'm going to take a wild guess and say that you stole these food stuffs from the local English population... after I specifically told you and your men not to do so," Rommel pointed out, ignoring the growing displeasure he held for the man.

Dietrich merely smirked as he ate quietly.

Rommel sighed, his palm pressing to his face. Dietrich was clearly an eastern front commander. There it was a clash of two polar opposite ideologies, where no quarter was given and none returned. Out here in the west, the English and Rommel were also in an ideological war, but at least the English and German nations shared many traits. The war could be clean if both sides were willing to try.

Another thing that Dietrich did not seem to understand was just how vast the number of English civilians and prisoners were now fallen into Rommel's hands since his all but assured conquering of Egypt. The English were a stubborn race, but star struck by his presence. When they had concerns and issues, they sent along their representatives, like any decent German would. Rommel, now finding himself in the strange position as a Commandant to this city, would see to their requests with whatever he could. He respected their customs, he respected their access to food and water. He even allowed the English to police themselves so long as they answered to local German commanders.

It was all a part of his theory that really should have been followed on both sides: Honour in defeat. A well-treated captive was less likely to pick up a gun and shoot at their oppressors if they did not think the enemy was any worse than their own side.

This sort of mutual respect for victor and vanquished was a theory that Dietrich did not seem to put much faith in. It had gotten to the point where if the Afrika Korps spotted SS men looming around civilians, they would see to escorting the English to the safety of Afrika Korps controlled sections of the city until the SS men were gone, in some cases, notably when English woman were harassed, they turned to street brawling.

The Egyptian people were more on their own, not because Rommel did not like them, it was because they were much too numerous. Still, Rommel did what he could for them. He even went so far as to mobilize the Italians to cooperate with the Bobbies in street patrols. The Egyptians, however were much more rugged than the English, they could handle the harassment. Their people, from the lowest of street urchins, to the highest clerics of Alexandria greeted Rommel as though he was the second coming of Saladin. His offices had been flooded with hundreds, thousands of requests to join the Korps as they saw the German/Italian army as the liberators from their British masters, perhaps even the eventual protectors of Palestine -The great emancipator of the Arab people.

His amused thoughts of becoming the next T.E Lawrence were pushed aside. For now, however, Rommel was instead having dinner with a Nazi who looked close to replying.

"You act as though it's a capital offence," Dietrich laughed it off as though the Generalfeldmarschall had been telling a joke. "The English would do the same thing if the situation was reversed and you know it. Besides, the English pigs would simply take these perfect cuts of meat and broiled them, then baked them in some sort of piecrust slathered in salted pork juice. A filthy, backstabbing, scheming race, led by that half-jew drunkard Churchill… I suppose they compliment each other."

The SS man set down his knife and fork.

"Herr Rommel, you have been blessed by having to conduct this war," Dietrich rumbled out his bartone voice. "Warm weather and fighting the Anglo-Saxons is preferable to the Slavic hordes. It seems to me that if you really want to secure your name, you will take your talents east."

Rommel set down his silverware and arched his brow.

"Yet you are here, in my front, trying to regain the glory you lost..." Rommel pointed out, his tone slippery as he leaned backwards into his seat, his words catching the SS general off guard. "Speaking of which," Rommel pressed on with the edged tone. "I had heard a peculiar rumour with regards to your fighting in the east. That you had been the real reason behind the failure of 1941 to take Moscow, and ultimately Von Rundstedt took the blame for you."

Erwin watched and took a small pleasure watching Dietrich's face turn faintly red at the observation.

"I always find it funny when I have an SS officer in front of me, telling me how I should run my war, telling me that they are the future of the armed forced of the Fatherland, when clearly you lot have miles to go," Rommel twisted the knife with as much vicious condescension which he picked up from the East Prussians who would talk down to him with. "Whether he likes it or not, the Führer needs the army. So someone has too kept him grounded in reality. Though your army may be bruisers, I have limited faith in your leaders, especially since your lot answers to men like Himmler."

Dietrich hid the growing annoyance he must have felt by lifting his wine glass to his face.

"That implies the men of the Waffen-SS have a _love_ for the Reichsführer." Dietrich spoke in between sips. "That implies I have any _respect_ for the Reichsführer as military commander, or as a rational man."

Rommel frowned slightly; he had not expected the vanguard of the regime to speak so angrily about his advocate to the Fuhrer. Perhaps the SS was much more complicated than first appeared. He, like many of his contemporaries felt they were unthinking, unfeeling shock troops who were better off deprogrammed and sent into the Heer. Perhaps they were capable of listening to reason.

To have the Waffen-SS stand against the regime... it made him nearly giddy.

"Are you..." Rommel started delicately. "… are you aware of what he is doing?"

Gulping down the last mouthful of steak, Dietrich looked up to Rommel disbelievingly.

"With all due respect, Herr Generalfeldmarschall, but have you had your head stuck up your ass since 1933?" his words biting, but his tone respectful. "Of course I am aware. It's not exactly a state secret."

"And you agree with it?" Rommel retorted. "Wholesale murder programs against other races?"

Sepp Dietrich scowled.

"It's not in my place to voice an opinion, nor is yours," was Dietrich officially sounding answer… as though he was worried about being overheard. "I may not like Himmler, but some of his work is respectable..."

 _Respectable_ … how delusional could Dietrich be?

"Your master is not here, you do not need to show your loyalty," Rommel spoke lowly to the General. "What do you think of it?"

Frowning, Dietrich seriously considered the soldier sitting before him.

"That from what I have seen, it is extremely messy business. The Reichsführer does not understand what performing firing squads against ten thousand Jews, let alone ten million Jews does to men, what it does to any man who's volunteered their services to the cause," Dietrich finally allowed himself to complain openly. "3rd Totenkopf is on the verge of being swamped with psychological issues. 2nd Das Reich has been fighting too much to get involved. You can thank Bittrich for that… clever son of a bitch. Volunteered the hardest assignments so that they were not volunteered for cleaning..."

Dietrich exhaled the mouthful of smoke. His eyes travelled back up to Rommel.

"Personally however, I think it might be wrong to lump all the Jews together, much like how everyone lumps the SS together." Dietrich continued as he stubbed out his cigarette on the oak table. "The Jewry of Europe can be split up into two groups: Western Jewry and the Ostjude."

Rommel narrowed his brow.

"The western Jew is a somewhat clean, respectable people, Herr Rommel," he explained. "They can assimilate somewhat into the fabric of their adopted coutry, they go to war and die for the Kaiser. You and I have seen it for ourselves. They're intellectuals, but they have enough respect for German values. Enough to stay quiet and not make a sound, no matter how terribly a situation they are in... Like a loyal dog. Mistreating them... it's close to animal cruelty, really. I have a great reserve about Himmler's rounding up of the western Jew."

Finishing his wine, he set the glass down, unknowably enrapturing Rommel's attention. Rommel found himself both sickened and marvelled at how well he rationalized hatred.

"The Ostjude is a whole different story, however." Dietrich pressed on, his mild grin dying into a look of disgust. "They lie, cheat and murder. They tricked the Russian people into Bolshevism. They murdered the Tsar and his family and the rest of the true patriots of Russia, They forced the Ukrainians into staying submissive when that psychotic Georgian ex-priest, Stalin starved them so that he could pay for a modern army we fight today. Unlike the western jew, loyal dogs that their masters must occasionally shout at for pissing on the carpet, the Ostjude are simply locus. They have rotted away the foundations of the once noble nation of Russia because we let them, because we were short sighted, we needed peace in the east so that our men could face the West and finally break the Entente in the last war."

The SS man paused, rubbing his mouth.

"Now they seek to do the same to the rest of the civilized world, with one exception," Dietrich spoke again to the Generalfeldmarschall. "They will eradicate us because we were brave enough to be the first to stand against their tyranny. They will have the Slavs rape our women, destroy our bloodlines, burn our cities until Germany is but a rumour, a stern warning to the rest of the free world about standing up to real monsters..."

Pushing his empty plate top the side and waiting for the Egyptian servant boy collect it. Dietrich tugged out his cigarettes, not before offering one to Rommel, who shook his head. The Generalfeldmarschall's refusal would have been the sign for a Heer soldier or officer not to smoke unless directed by their superior that it was tolerable.

The SS, on the other hand, did not have the same sort of respect. As the SS man lit up and exhaled the smoke, the servant boy coughed slightly, a small amount of spittle touching against the uniform of the Waffen-SS man. As a response, Dietrich's boot snapped out, kicking the boy gathering his plate and glass. The boy stumbled, but did not lose them, his eyes growing wide as he noticed Rommel's eyes on him.

"Speaking of firing squads, I know what you did on Malta." Dietrich pressed on, jabbing his cigarette out towards Rommel threateningly. "Did you think I would not have questioned the civilian's spreading rumours about how Eichmann died?"

Rommel remained dead still, his expression only displaying a distasteful scowl. It was all he could do in defiance, short of shooting Dietrich. Killing Dietrich, however, would have been something he could not have gotten away with.

"I would assume you would ignore it," Rommel flat out dodged, maintaining his hard tone. "Rumours are dangerous, especially spread by the enemy. Lies meant to drop the morale of our men."

Smiling bemusedly, Dietrich nodded, knowing full well that the Heer officer had been lying to him.

"Especially considering the rumour involves the grand and noble Rommel having personally executed my liaison to Himmler," Dietrich pressed on. "Meanwhile here I am dining with a man who apparently despises who I stand by."

Rommel allowed his eyes to scan for any hostile movement. Underneath the table, his hand moved to unbuckle his holster. Still Dietrich had not made a move. He simply sat there at the table, his hands resting connected to one another. He looked almost amused by Rommel's sudden show of near paranoia.

"You can relax, Generalfeldmarschall, I would not dare turn you in," Dietrich informed his CO. He leaned inwards, whispering. "Eichmann was scum of the worse sort, the Allgemeine-SS in general really. They refuse to get their hands dirty, they always go to use when they need to show the conquered people about their genetic superiority hypothesis."

Chuckling grimly, Dietrich leaned back into his seat, his blatantly open remark about the madness occurring in Europe chilling the Generalfeldmarschall.

"Still… I think that it would be in your best interest to head to Vienna and pay your respects," Dietrich spoke in between puffing his cigarette. "I have been asked to come, but I think it would make a gesture of good inter-service relations if you went in my place. Personally, I think that little _shit_ is better off dead... If I were in your shoes, I would have dropped him in one of his prison camps and fed him to the Jews."

Rommel nodded idly. Perhaps he would make an appearance in Vienna. It had been some time since he was in that city.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**


	5. December 24th, 1942

**Chapter Five: December 24th, 1942**

 **...**

Julfest had come late this year for the Langer's fault. It was usually the moment the calendar his December 1st that the Langer's starting preparing for the Winter holiday, The fir tree would have been in the home for easily a few weeks before eve of the holiday once known as Weinachten - or as his mother called it thanks to her childhood in Kent - Christmas.

Joachim found himself blaming himself for the delay. It was not without merit, either. The Langer's had been too worried sick about him to realize that they were midway through December and not even the Advent wreath had been set up. So the past few days, Lene had been rushing about, setting up a Christmas for everyone... Julfest...

He slapped his mind back into place. His Mother's anglophile streak was out of place here.

A hand pressed against his shoulder. Joachim turned away from his obsessive stare at the fir tree and noticed that Geli was standing there, tall, but still only at eye level with him despite sitting in front of the tree. He offered the girl a faint smile.

"I can't reach that branch, can you help me?" She shyly requested, her hands clutching a small, flat cardboard decoration, clearly one she had just made and was quite proud of that fact.

Glancing over her shoulder, he noticed that Langer was lying on the couch, spread out, reading a newspaper, fully dressed in his uniform, he had Eichmann's funeral to go to today of all days. Lene was in the kitchen, listening to a phonograph recording of Bach, she was cooking a goose for tonight's dinner. Joachim turned back and offered Geli another smile as he forced his aching body to stand up and lift the small girl until she was almost near the top of the tree.

From there, the child fiddled with one of the branches until finally she chose the perfect place to hand her makeshift Kris Kringle cut out. She turned back and flinched, her eyes no more than a few centimetres from the pistol round scar gracing his face.

"What happened to your face?" She asked aloud, not realizing that bringing such things up were rude. From behind her, her Father looked up from the paper, curious about the answer that was brewing in Joachim's mind.

Joachim set the girl down and bent onto her knees so he could be eye level with her.

"I said some very bad things to someone." He admitted, not wanting to go into all the deals, considering Geli was the baby of the family at four years old. Still smiling, his finger tapped against his cheek, adding. "When you're bad to others, bad things happen to you... I mean, look at your Papa, he used to look quite handsome once, now he's more hideous than Churchill."

The jab, clearly directed at Gerald, made the old man cringe and a short, sharp laugh erupted from the kitchen. Lene seemed to have agreed.

Allow Geli a chance to flee, it turned out the conversation wasn't over. Approaching him and sitting down in front of the Obersturmbannführer was Wilhelm, the eldest boy at the age of twelve. His eyes were drawn to his exposed mechanical arm sticking out of his rolled up white long sleeved shirt.

"Your arm is weird," he pointed out, sounding like his father.

Joachim tried not to groan as his human hand rubbed his mechanical arm self-consciously. Were these children seriously going to interrogate him about his injuries?

"Yes it is, isn't it?" Joachim agreed with Wilhelm, a mild grin crossing his mouth. "I was hurt a while back, the good doctors could not save my arm, and this is an experimental new arm..." he paused and added, "would you like to touch? It's not dangerous or anything."

Wilhelm nodded, so Joachim outstretched it before him. Tentatively, the little boy touched Joachim's joint in the mechanical arm.

Suddenly the Obersturmbannführer had an awful, terrible idea, one that would surely get him into trouble, making the idea that much more tempting to do. Perhaps it would give Gerald a moment of laughter after having been stuck going to the Eichmann funeral.

"That was the suicide switch Wilhelm!" Joachim cried out, his eyes wide and wild, making the boy suddenly jump. "Of all the places you could touch, you touched that one-!"

Joachim cut himself off as he flung out his artificial arm and wrapped the hand around his windpipe. It wasn't a strong grip, just enough for show. Joachim sputtered and dramatically fell to the floor, much to the shock and fear of Wilhelm and rest of the children, which exception to Helena, who watched the scene unfold with a great amusement. Gerald too, looked close to laughter as he watched his youngest brood try to save Joachim to no avail.

In the end it took a single whack to the back of his head from a wooden spoon to break his fake grip. Joachim looked up, there stood Lene, she was shaking with a rage that made Joachim wince.

 **"JOACHIM** _ **WILBUR**_ **HOCH! YOU'LL STOP FRIGHTNING THE LITTLE ONES!"**

Joachim went sheet white and rounded on Gerald, who had burst out laughing at Lene's revelation that she was quite aware of a name Joachim sought very hard to conceal.

 _"You actually told her my middle name?"_ he growled at the laughing older man.

Gerald ignored the anger as he stood up from his seat; he patted his wife's shoulder and wrapped his arm around her, leading her back to the kitchen, the mother still fuming with her rage. Though she did calm down somewhat as she realized that she was probably should not have hit him.

"He's just toughening Wilhelm up," Gerald reasoned with his wife but was addressing his youngest children as he added. "Uncle Joachim only wants you to not fear unpredictability. Isn't that right?"

The children, specifically Wilhelm looked up to Joachim who sat there, his hand rubbing the back. That wasn't exactly his reason... did he really need to justify his every action? He had essentially lived most of his life in some state of conflict, what was so wrong with him acting childishly once and a while? He wasn't old just yet...

"If you say so…" Joachim mumbled. Noticing the severe look on Lene's face, he hastily added. "I mean, yes, I only want Wilhelm ready when he is called up for service."

Joachim offered the boy an apologetic smile. At least he wasn't scared anymore; Joachim leaned forward and messed the boys slicked back blonde hair up. Behind him there was a tap on his child.

"Will I get to fight?"

Joachim turned back. The voice belonged to the eldest girl, Frieda; she was ten years old and much more masculine, more so than Helena at least. She loved to play sports, football, even tried tennis, which was amazing for a girl of her age. Before Joachim could reply, her father cleared his throat.

"You will be vital in your own way..." Langer assured his child.

Hoch noticed the look of disappointment on her face. He sighed, his hand patting the girl's cheek as he leaned in, his forehead touching hers.

"Your old Father is a dinosaur," he staged whispered. "I know this woman who makes me look as scary as Uncle Heinrich. Perhaps one day you will get to serve as well."

Gerald snorted at the reference and the very thought of one of his daughters serving.

"That's very forward thinking of you, it's kind of sickening really," the Standartenführer admonished his subordinate. "My daughter is not joining the SS, end of discussion."

Chuckling to himself, Joachim stood up, lifting the ten year old up with him, earning a squawk from the child. Grinning he looked up to Gerald.

"Don't worry, Frieda, I'll sponsor you... as your Father did for me," he assured the child, watching Langer twitch with annoyance. "It's going to be funny watching your Father have a stroke when you come home dressed in your uniform."

Langer could only scowl.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

Tugging his muddy Luftwaffe winter coat around his body tighter and tightening the scarf around his neck, confiscated from a Russian local, Erich Fuhrmann collected his Submachine gun and moved out into the street, dazed and surprised at what was standing before him.

A Schwarzwald draft horse, black with a white mane and muzzle, a detail that Erich could have quite easily missed; The horse was battered, mud frozen to its muzzle and mane, the horse must have been abandoned by the artillery crew it most likely had been used to transport. A horse its size... yes, that was the reason why it was here.

Carefully, Erich approached the animal standing there watching him, his mouth forming a soft smile of reassurance as he held his hand out, walking towards the animal.

Erich had been raised on a farm, a farm that housed a draft horse similar to this one, his name; Thor was giving to him by Heinrich. It was his and his brother's job to tend to it on behalf of Father whenever Father wasn't out tilling the fields with him. Thor had been an old soul in a young body, his temperament demure. It gave Heinrich and him ample opportunities to ride the animal with little fear that he would resist.

The draft horse in front of him huffed in a slight panic, forcing Erich to freeze for a moment, if only to give the beast a moment to accept the nonthreatening human standing before him.

"It's okay; I'm not going to hurt you." Erich whispered soothingly as he stepped closer still.

The horse protested a little more, but fell silent as soon as Erich's hand soothingly pressed against the animal's muzzle. He did not flinch; the animal simply stood there and allowed Erich to lavish affection onto him. Erich's smile widened as he itched the draft horses cheek.

"That's not so bad, is it?" He whispered softly.

For a brief moment, it felt as though there had been no war, that he was back at home with Thor, his brother, his family, even his new sister-in-law. Just living in the quiet of the south German countryside; there they would celebrate the holidays in peace.

A rifle round answered his question and broke his imagined peace. The bullet slammed into the draft horse's neck, coating Erich's face in steaming hot blood. Erich stumbled back wide eyed as the wounded horse reared back and screamed, that god awful scream that only dying horses were capable of emitting.

Fuhrmann stumbled into the snow as the horse collapsed, still alive, the rifle round was unable to penetrate the animal's powerful neck. The Greifter stood up, his tears streaming down his blood soaked face, his old Lugar pistol suddenly drawn and in his hands. The horse continued the thrash and scream. He screamed and screamed, leaving Erich unable to speak.

He raised his pistol and shot the horse in the head, over and over to silence the animal, to finish the job. It took an entire clip before the horse would lay still.

Slumping into the snow covered rubble; Erich gave off a soft sob. He barely registered Hammer kneeling in front of the horse, nor the hand belonging to Johann Oster, his rifle slung over his shoulder, its barrel whispering with the scent of fresh gunpowder smoke.

"I am sorry Fuhrmann, but dinner comes first," Oster spoke to him, his voice hard with undisputable logic.

Watching as Oster joined Hammer as he stripped away the horse flesh with their bayonets; Fuhrmann bowed his head.

If he had stomach contents, he would have certainly vomited.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

"Are you sure you want to do this? I can predict how this will go."

"He'll come along when he's told. Besides, I feel we owe him an explanation at the very least. Your men tortured him after all."

Ernst Kaltenbrunner ignored the mild chastising tone in his bosses tone as the two SS men stepped up the walkway towards the Langer home. For as powerful as he was, Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler sure was concerned about the welfare of man with dubious at best loyalty to the cause. In any case, it did not matter; he was just the intelligence gatherer. Himmler was the one who made the decisions on whether or not men like Hoch were loyal.

It only took a single knock by Himmler before the door was opened by Lene Langer, that gorgeous blonde Ernst would love nothing more than to fuck raw.

"A happy Julfest, Frau Langer," Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler greeted the shocked blonde standing in the doorway. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. In my meetings with your husband, he has had nothing but praise for you."

The woman known as Lene Langer gathered her senses and curtsied slightly to Himmler, she stepped out of the doorway and ushered the two high ranking SS officials into her home. Her smile for Himmler died as she noticed the leer spreading across Ernst's face, his eyes scanning the woman very carefully.

"Herr Reichsführer, Herr Kaltenbrunner..." Frau Langer spoke in a low whisper, her voice nervous under the attention of Reichsführer and staring Kaltenbrunner. "I... Welcome to our home... both of you."

Himmler removed his cap, his hand touching against his hair as he looked around to marvel at the Julfest decorations. He turned back and smiled reassuringly at the woman.

"And a lovely one at that," he complimented the mother, who smiled kindly at the praise. "I know that your husband is not here. I was actually hoping to have a few words with Joachim Hoch if he is home as well."

Smiling demurely, the woman nodded and gestured for the two men to follow, which they did, through the hallway and towards the sounds of several children playing in the longue. The Reichsführer and he paused as they entered in after the Mother. There in the corner of the room stood a majestic fir tree, fully decorated and surrounded by a brood of children, surrounding a man, his head shaved, he wore black slacks and a white button down shirt.

He turned back, sure enough it was Joachim Hoch, and his eyes simply stared into both Kaltenbrunner's and Himmler's. The Reichsführer glanced to him before stepping forward.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Obersturmbannführer," greeted Himmler, his voice kind as he turned to face the many children gathered around what amounted to be their pseudo relative. He add, "You little ones wouldn't mind if I speak with him?"

The children listened to Himmler, each of them obediently listening to the Reichsführer, they joined their Mother and together, the family left, leaving Joachim alone with his superiors. Silently, Joachim stood up, his posture ridged as he came to a state of half attention for Himmler. Himmler dropped his eyes, falling onto the mechanical arm that had replaced his lost arm, provided generously by those quarians.

"As I understand it, you have no desire to join us at the funeral today," Himmler found his voice, casting his eyes up to look to Hoch.

Ernst watched the little defiant shithead nod his head.

"Though I sympathize for the loss, Reichsführer, you must understand why I have declined the offer," the young officer admitted to the Reichsführer and the second most powerful man in the Reich. "Eichmann and I have never been on good terms… Besides, considering my last few months in your hospitality has left me wanting to limit my exposure to the rest of the Allgemeine-SS."

Kaltenbrunner narrowed his eyes. This was to be expected out of a Waffen-SS dog, barely more loyal than the Heer. Joachim Hoch was lucky he could still walk. He could have made this little shit suffer in ways only the condemned suffered, but no, he gave his word to Langer that he would not do it. If only he hadn't kept his word. The kid would be trembling right now.

Himmler held his hand up, keeping Hoch safe from him for the moment. The Reichsführer simply smiled his expression remorseful as he stepped closer to the Obersturmbannführer.

"Yes, I realize that, which is why Kaltenbrunner is here," Himmler explained to the younger man, standing there smugly crossing his natural and quarian built arms. "I was informed to your family's lack of conviction in the party, and that they were enemies to the country. While we remain convinced that remains the case, we had no right to paint you with the same rush. We should have never have questioned your loyalties in the first place. You have been nothing short of a perfect example to our younger members."

Though the Reichsführer was smiling, the praise did not faze Hoch.

"The reason you ended up in Kaltenbrunner's hands is because the...quarians might have found a few secrets that were not meant to be shared…" Himmler explained as his wrapped his hands. He smiled slightly, though it was clearly pained. "Again... it appeared that you ended up as a pawn, a false flag thrown to us by the quarians… They are bastards to a level we could not have predicted. I assure you, their day will come."

Joachim remained dead silent; Kaltenbrunner was staring to get annoyed by this mute fuck. Thankfully for Hoch, the Reichsführer was much more forgiven than he.

"I wish... I wish that this did not happen to you. Gestapo tactics are meant for application against our enemies, not against our brothers..." he paused and added. "I have heard you did not break... You have no idea how proud I am of you."

Hoch nodded blankly, his voice finally saying, "Thank you, Herr Reichsführer..."

Accepting the curt response as genuine, Himmler gestured to the giant standing next to him.

"I think I will hand the floor over to Kaltenbrunner..." Himmler spoke to Hoch kindly. "I think I would like to meet a couple future soldiers and thank our host for letting us into her home.

Himmler patted Hoch's shoulder and nodded, leaving Hoch and Kaltenbrunner alone. Ernst smiling to the departing Reichsführer, turned back to face Joachim once again.

"Hoch…" Kaltenbrunner started. "what can I tell you, in my zealousness I rushed to apply all means at my disposal to get an answer that you didn't have…"

Himmler now gone, presumably to speak with Lene and the children gathered in the kitchen, Kaltenbrunner reached out and grabbed Hoch's arm, forcing the somewhat shorter younger man, His eyes burned hard into the former interrogation subject. He watched Joachim's eyes widen and glance down at the grip he was now caught in. As quickly as the fear was shown, it vanished off the boy's face.

"I'd do it all over again, you slippery little Jew lover," Ernst growled lowly. "I know that you know something and I promise you, I'm going to find out."

Joachim did not move, he did not so much as even blink. He simple glared upwards into the giant's eyes.

"Are you done?" he spoke, his voice cold as ice. "I should go get ready, I would not want to your friend's burial. Tell me… will it be open or closed casket?"

Breaking Ernst's grip, Hoch pushed past the man and headed upstairs, presumably to get changed, leaving Kaltenbrunner fuming with rage.

...

...

There were easily a thousand men gathered in this tractor factory. None of them lower than Christian Bohr's rank of Feldwebel. They weren't sure why they were there. At least Bohr wasn't sure. All he knew was that the boss had summoned most, if not all of the officers and NCO's of the western line for a gathering, a plan perhaps, all he had been rumours.

 _ **"Attention!"**_

The entire factory floor came to attention. Bohr smiled lazily as he too came to attention. Even in near defeat, the officer class of the Heer could manage a shred of dignity and discipline.

Moving through them was Generaloberst Friedrich Paulus surrounded by a dozen of his immediate subordinates. Though he moved through the soldiers, saluting, it was clear by the grim expression on his face that whatever he brought them together for was probably not going to be good.

"At ease... I don't have a voice so come in closer," he called out as he climbed on top of the assembly line. Bohr and the rest of the officers and NCO's obliged, they packed in close to hear their battle fatigued leader speak.

"I know you are aware of the rumours occurring," Paulus spoke to the collection of officers and NCO's gathered around him. "That Manstein is on the verge of relieving us. I speak to you first because you all will be at the forefront of my plans. Manstein has breached through the Russian lines. He is now six kilometres from the city. Unfortunately, the Soviets have tightened their defences. He has slowed his advance to a near standstill. "

There was a low murmur; even Bohr had found himself surprised. Manstein had pushed that deep into the encirclement? They were nearly saved!

In that moment of optimism, out came his rational mind. Six kilometres? In the last war he had heard the horrors of the Somme, battling and losing hundreds of thousands of men for such a petty gain. It left him with a realization. Manstein wasn't going to relieve the city. He simply lacked the strength. He was going to evacuate as many men as he could before the lines he cut through the Russians collapsed.

"Six kilometres is all that stands between us and being relieved, so I ask this one last favour of you all. The North, South and Eastern lines will hold against the Soviets," Paulus pressed on, his voice much more confident now. "I ask of you all in the west to prepare for a limited offensive. We are the Sixth Army. We will not simply lie down and wait to die in this city. Not when our relief is so close. This shall be our one last effort."

Paulus paused, staring off. He looked guilty, guilty that he was ordering his worn down and near collapsed army into pushing hard against the ring of Soviet steel trapping them inside the city. Bohr felt almost bad for him until he remembered that when the Soviets had encircled them, the 6th Army was still mostly intact. They could have easily committed a breakthrough and leave the ashes of Stalingrad to the communists to sift through.

Yet again the realist spoke to him. The only troops that would be saved were those on the offensive, the rest would be encircled and killed, sacrificed for a handful of men getting out. That meant Bohr had to get his men battle-ready once again. This offensive was the last chance they had to escape this nightmare.

"I will be reallocating Panzers and fuel to your commands." Paulus continued. "Our tanks are battered and few and we have but enough fuel to break through maybe five… ten kilometres." The Generaloberst paused, pulling off his cap as he added with great remorse. "I wish I could give you all a better Julfest gift, but hope and limited supplies is all that I have to give..."

Paulus scanned the factory, his eyes staring at the fatigued, grimy officers looking back at him for the answers they so desperately needed.

"Know that we are all in this together... If this relief fails, I have no intentions on leaving Stalingrad," Paulus announced to the quiet gathering. "Not when you all are here fighting for this rubble. You and your men are all in my thoughts. Good luck to all of you."

With that said the tired Generaloberst climbed down from the assembly line and sulked out past his men, his fantasies of relief being dashed by the sheer hopelessness of the situation.

Happy Julfest, indeed.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

Joachim could not believe this, just when he thought he was in the clear not to have to go to that god forsaken funeral, the Reichsführer and his son of a bitch attack dog had informed him his presence was not a request. All he wanted to do was spend the day with Lene and the kids. Learn to cook, take the children out to play in the snow with the other Viennese children. He did not want to spend the eve of Julfest trapped in some goddamn funeral for a man he never liked in the first place.

The funeral wasn't what bothered him, it was how the Reichsführer wanted to ask him to come, Himmler could have simply asked that he show his face, Joachim would have honoured his superiors request. However, Hoch was not in need of the Reichsführer intervention in any bad blood between Kaltenbrunner and him. Hoch had no intention of forgiving the bastard. When the time came and the Wehrmacht made their move, Joachim was going to go gunning straight for him. It was simple as that, twisted son of a bitch.

Gerald was right to fear Ernst Kaltenbrunner. Kaltenbrunner lacked any sense of a conscience. For the first time in a long time, since officer training school Joachim had come to fear a member of a an organization he was a part of. Kaltenbrunner not a man anyone should trifle with, not unless they were armed. Killing Kaltenbrunner would be a favour to the whole world that wasn't yet aware of the pure sociopath buried away in that man.

A beep, muffled due to it coming from the bedside table drawer caught the now dressed up and brooding Hoch. He frowned, reaching over and opened the drawer, only to find a small piece of technology that Joachim was still getting used to, his omni-tool. It was flashing an in his language, the words 'new message' was flashing. Sighing, knowing that a quarian wanted his audience, Joachim hit the message.

 _My Joachim, I miss you._

 _Yours,_

 _Hanala._

Joachim scowled at the simple message left to him by the by the desperate sounding woman somewhere beyond the Earth. Had he not told her all those months ago not to contact him? What part of leave him alone had Hanala'Jarva not understood?

As angry as he felt, Joachim could not help but feel that perhaps Hanala wasn't entirely to blame, that he was taking the blame out on the wrong person. Her Father, the rest of the admirals, all of them demanded Hanala lead him around blind to the fact that they were preparing a coup. That she too was a pawn in a game that neither of them were fully aware of. If that was the case, then perhaps he was in the wrong for shunning her so blatantly.

Feeling guilty did not mean Joachim was about to forgive her though. Hanala, though in the dark, had to be aware of her manipulations on some sort of level. Had this been the first time, he would have forgiven her off the bat, but this was the second time he had been used by her. Forgiveness was not going to be an easily obtainable quest for her.

Not sure how he was going to react to her presence. Joachim fumbled with the omni-tool, deciding it was time to give her a chance.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

It was a real shame Halid'Zorah hadn't enacted his plans starting at this funeral. Everyone who was anyone in the SS upper echelon had showed up to this gathering. Himmler, Heydrich, who gave a strangely touching eulogy, Kaltenbrunner, Hofmann, Mueller, Wolf, Rosenberg, Eicke...

It was virtual sea of grey and black uniforms, there was, however, one man who stood out in the crowd. It was none other than Wilhelm Canaris, who was deep in a conversation with what appeared to be a nervous looking clone of Heydrich. Both men looked up and met him in the eye. There was no gesture shared between them that indicated they were a part of the same conspiracy.

Exhaling, Erwin Rommel set down his empty glass of water and continued to scan the room. He felt completely out of place, though Dietrich had been right. Rommel's appearance as a eulogizer to Eichmann had resulted in a vast amount of new found trust the SS had in him. He apologized for not taking care of Eichmann, that he was a good man. Rommel had never lied more in his entire life.

It worked in the end. Himmler greeted the Heer Generalfeldmarschall with a hand shake; Heydrich looked close to hugging him. His eyes shimmering with tears. Eichmann being one of the few men Heydrich had ever trusted. The SS men in general treated him with a respect he had never expected to see. Some, especially in the case of Theodor Eicke, had him cornered for a good hour, asking him about the war in Africa and if he could come and teach their Totenkopf Division a little bit about his style of armour combat doctrine.

After offering his sympathizes to his widow and children, Rommel looked up and found a familiar sight. A man he had not seen in quite some time, but had certainly been kept up to date about.

Joachim Hoch, he was sitting a distance away from the SS wake, deep in a conversation with an older man, around his age. Rommel moved towards him. The movement was not lost on Hoch as he looked up and nodded his head, his movement followed by the second man who went immediately wide eyed.

"Herr Generalfeldmarschall..." Hoch spoke up, standing up to offer the Generalfeldmarschall an army salute, to which Rommel returned. Smiling crookedly he gestured to the SS man next to him, adding. "This is my commandant on the project, Standartenführer Gerald Langer."

Rommel inclined his head briefly to the Standartenführer, suddenly nervous in appearance.

"So, this is the man who let you into my front," he spoke dryly, his words making Langer red in the face. "You will forgive me if I take Herr Hoch?"

Glancing between Hoch and Rommel, Langer shook his head and allowed Rommel; to place his hand on the Obersturmbannführer's shoulder, leading him further away from the hall and out towards the balcony overlooking the darkened city of Vienna. The floor flew open and a giant scarred face man stomping into the room, his shoulder hitting Joachim's hard enough to make him stumble. The two men locked eyes briefly before Joachim and Rommel stepped out into the balcony, closing the French doors behind them.

"Skorzeny… lousy prick," Joachim growled as he tried to fix the arm of the jacket. Rommel cocked his brow at the anger.

"He's a lower rank..."

Hoch snorted derisively as he went to lean on the balcony.

"Ranks are real flexible in the midlevel Waffen-SS. It is meant to find out who can grow and who isn't strong," Joachim explained as he dug into his pockets for his cigarette case. "Skorzeny stopped the quarian secret getting out, destroyed the Czechoslovakian resistance in Prague and broke that Maltese fort. He's the Führer's pet Commando... He's untouchable."

Rommel nodded; he held his hand up to politely decline the cigarette being offered to him. He allowed the Obersturmbannführer a few moments to inhale the cigarette before he finally cleared his throat.

"As I understand it from our mutual... friends. You and Eichmann did not see eye to eye."

Hoch glanced back to Rommel and simply nodded.

"Eichmann rubbed many men in the SS the wrong way," Hoch spoke, not worried about speaking ill of the dead at their own wake apparently. "Ambition is nice, but Eichmann ran over all the wrong people to get it. Rumour has it Kaltenbrunner kept him in his crosshairs since 1938."

The Heer officer rubbed his mouth, it didn't sound much different than the Heer in all honesty. The moment an officer showed promised and wasn't from Prussian stock, he was almost immediately securitized. Prussian officers were uncomfortable thinking that men from Bavaria or other regions were capable of the same quality of leadership.

"The SS is a surprisingly fickle unit once you peel the layers away, isn't it?" Rommel spoke again. "I had a chat with Sepp Dietrich a few days ago."

Joachim looked up curiously at the mention of the leader of the Leibstandarte.

"He's not a particularly pleasant man, but he left me with... thoughts..." Rommel continued. "Thoughts I have not run by others. I was hoping that you could investigate discretely."

"What do you need?"

For some reason or another, Rommel frowned at how quickly he was said okay. Still… he wasn't about to question it.

"I want you to speak to your old Commandant, Wilhelm Bittrich." Rommel explained, watching Hoch's eyes narrow at the request. "I don't want you to go about announcing what you are there for. I just want you to probe, talk of old days, small talk... Then bring up if he is aware Himmler and Heydrich's plans."

Glancing at the cigarette, untouched in Joachim's fingers, he held his hand open. Hoch obliged, allowing the Generalfeldmarschall, who usually abstained from cigarettes and alcohol to take a drag from the cigarette.

"Obergruppenführer Bittrich is a good man; I doubt he knew about this madness." Hoch muttered lowly as Generalfeldmarschall inhaled Hoch's cigarette. "He's in charge of 8th SS now, apparently filled with Volksdeutch... a cavalry division of all things... I should have continued in the cavalry."

Handing the cigarette back to the Obersturmbannführer Rommel clapped the boy on his shoulder.

"I will keep an eye on his next leave to Europe, or perhaps contact your quarians and head there yourself. I'm going to make my leave... Call my wife and wish her a season's greeting."

Hoch nodded and turned and went back to brooding as stared out over the city. Rommel ignored the pang of guilt for having this boy investigate on his behalf and was halfway out of the to the balcony French doors, when he paused and turned back. Hoch was clearly in the dark about a lot of things. Being Waffen-SS wasn't something that Zorah or Von Rundstedt seemed to have trusted all that much.

"One more thing," Rommel continue, breaking the boy's brooding as he turned back to face the shorter Generalfeldmarschall. "From what I heard, you have been twisting to the demands of everyone lately. Allow me do you a small courtesy of placing you ahead of the game. You will be receiving a phone call from Heinz Guderian in the near future... It appears that the Heer would like to take you in... For the record, I wanted you to join me in the desert, but since I was assigned Joachim Peiper as an adjutant to the Leibstandarte."

Rommel's mouth quirked as he watched the SS man went faint as he realized what he was saying, that Heinz Guderian wanted to take him in as a personal project. It took Joachim another few seconds to register whom Rommel had to deal with.

"Good luck with that one, Herr Generalfeldmarschall." The Obersturmbannführer wished sincerely. "I graduated with Peiper. He's an asshole at the highest calibre..."

Rommel nodded and left, leaving Joachim alone to contemplate what the Heer wanted to do with him. In Rommel's opinion, whatever Guderian did, it would be a step up from his current mentors.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

Hanala was glad to be back on the _Bismarck_.

The skeleton crew that worked on it was from the _Idenna_. They never stayed more than eight to ten hours doing repairs, leaving Hanala alone on the ship she was assigned to. Not so much a Captain, but a caretaker. She did not mind that, it left her alone with her thoughts. Alone to think about what kind of person she had become...

She wasn't sure if she liked it.

She had isolated everyone, became a cold, unfeeling bitch to keep the fact that she was feeling so desperately alone. Not in the literal sense of being assigned to an eight hundred meter long ship with no other crew, but alone because she had something real on that pale blue dot she could just barely see from her orbit over the Martian satellite.

For the first time in her life she had love and loyalty outside of her family, and she went off and screwed it all up. One too many deceptions had seemingly cost it such a thing. She could have been honest with him, Joachim Hoch had placed his loyalties to her over his own ideology, and that was what made the guilt that much worse. He was risking everything for a woman who had unwittingly cost him an arm and a prolonged stay with secret police.

Fumbling for a cigarette because she was quite clearly sloshed, her brow arched as she realized that the omni-tool she choose not to wear was flashing with a message left. The cigarette in her mouth now lit, she pressed her palm against the top of the device.

Her eyes widened, the cigarette in her mouth nearly dropped right out.

There, waiting in the inbox was an audio message left by Joachim Hoch.

Exhaling smoke from her mouth and nose, Hanala's shaking hand touched the play button. There was nothing at first... just a long delay, she could hear the sound of his breathing however, she missed that, the sensation of his chest rising and falling pressed against her back as he held her close while they slept...

 _"Thinking of you this holiday, Hanala,"_ A low whisper belonging to the man suddenly spoke. There was a moment's hesitation before he added. _"If you are ever in the neighbourhood, I would not say no to a visit... Just don't come thinking you're in the clear."_

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

 **Changes: clean up, deleted a shit ton of edginess.**


	6. December 31st, 1942

**Chapter Six: December 31st, 1942**

 **…**

 _-Joachim_

 _I will be on Earth inside a few hours. I will be at the Vienna landing site as usual. I hope that you will be there to greet me. I have so many things I wish to say to you._

 _Yours,_

 _Hanala_

Closing the message, Joachim stretched out in Hanala's old quarters in the museum.

Under most circumstances, he considered himself a very reasonable man. Patient to a fault, but when he received this message on the eve of Julfest, then spent the 25th in downtown Vienna waiting for her. Waiting for a woman who did not even show up, that had been almost a week ago. Since then, no contact, no apologies, there wasn't any reply from the quarians as to where she had been either. She had simply vanished.

Sighing, Joachim stared angrily at the roof above. She had better be dead or her ship broken down and her omni-tool destroyed. No one stood Joachim Hoch up before. To think that in his good cheer. Between Christmas and Eichmann being buried in a closed coffin funeral he was going to forgive her or just about everything she had done to him; From stabbing him, to manipulating him, to fucking up a grenade toss, to lying to him again.

Now that his good Julfest cheer had completely evaporated, it's by product turning into tense rage. He knew exactly what he was going to do. He was going to knock her on her fine ass, like she deserved.

Sure, he usually abhorred abusing women, hell he was scarred for doing so. Hanala, however, wasn't in the least bit like his mother. He would make an exception for her.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

Pushing through the snow and moving in between the slow moving armoured units, General Heinz Guderian could not believe that through the near blinding snowstorm, he could see the edges of Stalingrad.

Sixteen hard days of fighting, pushing through entire armies like a delicate blade and now they were here

Surrounded by his aides and guards he roamed between his units, unfettered by fire as made sure everyone was doing their jobs. They were, but he could see it in their eyes. Twenty days of fighting through a dozen different armies the Reds had planted around Stalingrad. His men were near collapse.

The only thing keeping them going was that they knew that at any time, the commanders could order a fighting withdrawal, The men of Stalingrad were not so lucky, and the fact that they had let the 6th Army down during the massive Soviet offensive was a guilt they could not shrug off. It was obligation to save those men. They were Brothers and, quite frankly it could have been them.

Well, Guderian may not have been involved in this action, but he would pitch in. To be honest, they did not seem use to having their superior in the field. Manstein loved his men, certainly, but as a Generalfeldmarschall, he needed to stay safe and as a result of the war being focused on his part of the front, Manstein nearly always forced to remain at the Fuhrer's side. Besides, he had a tactical mind that would be wasted on the front lines. His talents were where he was now, just in the occupied zones, relaying to both him and Hoth.

"Herr General, the lead elements have broken through their lines! We're back on the move!"

Nodding at the words of the adjutant, he simply said. "Finally, leave a company to secure the area."

Guderian turned to a Tiger no more than a few dozen meters from him. It had slowed down to a near halt. The General frowned, it wasn't mechanical errors, and it clearly was fuelled. Why wasn't it listening to his orders the assault on the west ridge?

Pushing past his assistants, Guderian decided he would find out why personally.

With a huff he hiked himself onto the back of the Tiger. Heinz clambered up its back end until he reached the turret. Prying open the hatch, the General leaned into the panzer and batted the surprised Panzer Commander's hat, his hand gripped the wide eyed young man by his hair and tugged him out of the safety of the Heavy Panzer.

"Commander, are you running out of fuel, perhaps?" he demanded to know. The Panzer Commander turned to the field of battle, then to the General,

"N-No Herr General!"

Before the Commander could register it, Guderian reared his hand back and slapped his hard across the face, spinning the young, inexperienced panzer man. The General grabbed the soldier by the lapels and shook him hard until some sense came back to him.

"Then don't you dare think of slowing down!" He growled dangerously to the Panzer Commander. Gesturing to the slopes on their left flank, undefended by the Soviets, he added. "That ridge overlooking the city, I want you on it. Get on your radio; I want you and the rest of the Tiger unit planted up there. I will be directing direct support fire from there."

Guderian shoved the man back into the panzer and closed the hinge once again, but remained on the vehicle, making sure that the panzer listened to him. By western standards, his abuse of a junior officer would seem cruel, but what they did not seem to understand was sometimes it was the way to snap them back into the fight at a short notice. If the issues persisted, the mental healthcare of soldiers was absolute priority. The last thing they needed were the men of the Heer losing their minds like the Waffen- SS, who did not believe that they needed such things.

"Herr General," he heard called to him. "I have a call coming in on the radio from General Hoth."

Turning back from the field of battle, he found his designated mobile radioman holding out a phone for the General. Guderian grabbed the phone and took the radio backpack from the trooper and turned back to face the conflict once more.

Overhead, a Soviet II-2 roared over low, it was chased by BF-109 away from the Panzers on the ground. The BF-109 banked, its weapons blazing. The General watched the plane explode as the much more agile interceptor shot down the ground attack fighter. The fireball over the battlefield was impressive.

Guderian may not have liked the way the Luftwaffe leadership conducting themselves, but he sure as hell had to respect the pilots who fought endlessly against the British, Americans and the Reds.

He turned back to back to his adjutants, now trailing the Tiger he was sitting on.

"Get the StuG's up on that ridge; I want the Panzer IV's ready to spearhead the charge. Armour cars. Hanomag and Opel trucks, even the Calvary are to mop up behind the panzers. Mobilize the Romanian elements and have them send their armour up to me!" Guderian commanded, watching his men scatter off to do his orders. He raised the phone to his ear, adding, "Hermann how is the situation down there?"

There was an explosion on the other end before General Hermann 'Papa' Hoth replied.

 _"Dismal, Heinz, my Luftwaffe assets have pulled back, lack of good weather, but the Red Air Force is still in the sky. I have no artillery fire support, either,"_ He answered the line crackling. _"On the bright side it appears General Paulus has mobilized his western lines. They have begun a counteroffensive and are trying to link up."_

Rubbing his forehead, he found himself suddenly thankful for him fighting on a high plain and his forces pushing downwards on the enemy lines. Hoth was fighting like all of his men were stormtroopers of the last war trying to break through a no man's land. It appeared the Soviets had learned from that dastardly Walter Model after he decimated entire Soviet armies in the Rzhev Salient.

"Christ, I'll be sure to watch my fire. I cannot spare what Luftwaffe units I have but I will order my long range artillery to support you wherever you need it," Heinz returned to the beleaguered sounding Hoth. "Is there any word yet from Herr Von Manstein?!"

 _"I spoke to the Generalfeldmarschall half an hour ago. Manstein is nothing but sheer rage,"_ Hoth explained, his voice almost humoured, _"He wants Hitler's head on the chopping block and Goering's ass raped for fucking us over with the air support."_

Guderian winced; he could just picture it now. Guderian had a real temper; it had gotten him in trouble many times with the Führer. Manstein was from much better blood then he. A Prussian Aristocrat who was taught patience was a virtue. If Erich von Manstein was screaming such things to his subordinates, then Von Manstein must have serious reasons to feel that way.

 _"If you get through to Manstein, you tell him not to pull back,"_ Hoth spoke again, breaking Guderian's ponderings. _"We've come so far. To quit now would be a damn waste!"_

Though Hoth could not see it, Guderian unconsciously nodded his head.

"I agreed," Guderian responded. "I reckon if I can breakthrough, I can only hold my ground for one... maybe two hours if there is a change in luck and Paulus moves his ass quickly. Just save everyone you possibly can."

Exchange their goodbyes, Guderian hung up, his hand rubbing his frozen nose. He turned back and found that his men had returned to his side. They were like loyal dogs to a master.

 _ **"What in the fuck are you looking at?!"**_ Guderian screamed at them. "I want an update on the lead elements!"

Watching them scatter off again, Guderian picked up the radio again and dialled into Von Manstein's private lines behind the spearhead. He found himself feeling guilty for doing so. Hoth needed all the support he could get, but still, Von Manstein was damned in every possible way. The Führer was under the impression Von Manstein would hold the city, thus all the support.

When that Austrian fool found out that Erich von Manstein's efforts was for a rescue operation. It did not matter how many men he managed to save. Von Manstein was likely about to suffer the exact same fate as Von Rundstedt did a year ago. Fired and humiliated for his actions, for his desire to save so many from the Communist hell.

As Von Manstein greeted Guderian, his voice strained and resigned, Guderian found himself happier than an Italian fucking a hairy woman that he was not a Generalfeldmarschall. If only Von Manstein was granted the same freedoms that Hitler had given Rommel. Perhaps they would be in the Caucasus oil fields by now

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

With a bottle of French champagne, Italian red wine, A couple Bavarian lagers and a bottle of Polish Vodka, bundled in his arms, Standartenführer Gerald Langer ignored the stares of the guards. This wasn't just an excuse to get trashed on New Year's this was an emergency, Joachim needed minimum two litres of alcohol flowing through his blow.

Oh, Langer knew exactly what this was about. Since Julfest Joachim's attitude had deteriorated into a state of him snapping at everyone, even the young of his brood. Only someone in love who was scorned acted in such a matter. Goddamn three fingered two toes alien. Playing with Hoch's fragile heart in such a way...

Well... those were not his words. Those were Lene's. Honestly, Langer couldn't give a shit where Joachim was sticking his cock into, so long as it was a vagina, the fact that Joachim and Lene were moping about this garbage meant that he was the one who had to suffer. From a brooding subordinate and a wife was having a headache conveniently whenever he was interesting in having sex.

Well today he was officially done with it. All of it He was going to have Joachim so drunk that any thought about Hanala'Jarva would either not exist or be a good one. Because fuck it, someone had to take charge, it might as well have been the Patriarch of the family Hoch unofficially a member of.

Kicking open Hanala'Jarva's Museum quarter's door he took three steps and slumped hard on the bed, where Joachim was asleep on. Hitting the bed so hard, it bounced Hoch awake. Chuckling, Langer took an exaggerated sniff of the air.

"So that's what stale quarian sex smells like." He playfully taunted. "You know I could have shelled out for a goddamn maid for her."

Joachim did not rely; he instead closed his eyes once again. Resigned that the big mopey bastard wasn't listening to him, Gerald dumped the bottles on the bed and turn back. Before Joachim realized it, Gerald's hands pushed out and shoved the Obersturmbannführer right off the bed, hitting the cold wooden flooring.

"Jesus, what the hell!" Joachim yelped as he scrambled to stand up tall on the opposite of the bed. Langer wasn't disturbed by the posturing, even if the kid looked like he was going to shoot him for what he did.

"Another day spent waiting for a woman," Langer said as he cracked open the bottle of red wine for himself. "Well, Today is the eve of 1943. We're loading up on food, drink and if I have to, I'll find you a nice Austrian girl to fuck. You are under orders to have a good time. Tomorrow you can return to your misery."

Still glaring menacingly, Joachim turned his eyes down to the collection. Quietly he dug out the Lager. Langer privately grinned; perhaps he was going to get into the spirit of the celebration.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

It was the afternoon before he finally landed in the designated landing zone just outside of the Hohenzollern estate stood. There, Halid'Zorah was greeted by Generalmajor Fedor von Bock, the liaison to the royal family until he was assigned a command. As the Generalmajor drove him to the country estate outside of Potsdam, Bock took the opportunity to refresh the Admiral about the etiquette of dealing with the family.

Of course, all that the Generalmajor said wasn't new by any means. He had been studying up on the family, not to mention this rant was not much different to every previous one Von Bock gave about the family. Still, he humoured the General. It was simply better this way.

Still talking as they reached the grounds and came to a stop, the two officers stepped out of the car they headed around the side of the house, past the groundkeepers and were now standing in a snow covered private garden, veritable sanctuary built for the Kaisers of old as a private getaway.

Bock gestured to where a family was playing. Two boys playing in the snow, watched closely by their Mother, Duchess Kira, one of the few Russian nobility that escaped the clutches of the communists when she was a little girl; A little ways off sat the Crown Prince, the future Kaiser of the post-Nazi Germany, Prince Louis Ferdinand

Halid watched as the Crown Prince sat there on the bench, watching as his wife and two sons played jubilantly. As if they were unaware of what was happening. Cradled in his arms and bundled in a winter coat was a daughter, no more than a few months old now. It made Halid feel heartened that humans and quarians shared this family trait, or, at the very least the he did.

Pushing past the quarian, Von Bock stepped forward, making their presence known to the family. He clicked his boots together and bowed his head slightly.

"Your Majesty, the quarian envoy is here," he announced, gesturing back to the Admiral. Zorah nodded as both the Crown Prince and the Duchess looked up to him in surprise. They must not have expected his arrival so quickly after the request was issued.

Von Bock, knowing that this audience was only for the two men, turned away and breezed by Zorah, He did however pause briefly to whisper _"mind yourself"_ to him. Zorah nodded. Between his studies and lessons from Bock, he was versed in how to handle German royalty now.

He looked up and watched as Louis carefully allowed Kira to take hold of the child and patted both of his son's heads Together the royal family moved in silence, as Bock before them, past the quarian. The two boys looked up to the quarian in wonder, the Duchess, however her head kept low, not even acknowledging Halid bowing respectfully.

Noticing the gesture, Louis returned it, but to be frank, it appeared awkward on him, like he had never had to return such a gesture before. Von Bock's utterance that Louis was in need of some education of his own did not seem entirely unfounded. He might have been well educated, but to act like a royal? Well that would take some time.

"Welcome Admiral Zorah, I would offer you something but as I have been informed, you cannot consume anything I can give you," he spoke, his voice humorous. Glancing over Zorah's shoulders, he added. "Do not mind my wife; she's still getting use to this..."

Halid shook his head.

"I am not offended; in fact, it is to be expected out of humans. So far every human we have encountered has shown surprising restraint to our presence," the quarian spoke plainly, earning a slight chuckle from the Prince. "Regardless, I am here to serve as you have requested, your Majesty."

Prince Louis Ferdinand held his hand up high. He looked amused by the quarians manners.

"Please, I would like you to drop the formality and this servile attitude; Louis will be preferable to _'Your Majesty'_. The men involved in the plot seem to think I am a Kaiser already," Louis returned, dismissing Halid's tone with a mild grin. "There are much too many variables still undetermined before I can ascend... I was hoping you would walk with me."

Ignoring the biting cold that was starting to bother him, even with a winter coat on, Zorah nodded; perhaps a walk would help him forget the temperature. Besides, Louis was the host, prince or not, the master of the home made the rules. Quietly, the two men pushed through the snow. Zorah, placed his gloved hands into his pockets, an action that was did not go unnoticed by the Prussian Aristocrat.

"As I understand it, your race is desert inclined, which explains your discomfort as well as your involvement in the Rommel campaign," Louis spoke sagely. "Have you met him? Rommel? I wish to meet with him one day. A good German in a position of power is rare to find these days. Even the men of the plot, they may have noble intentions, but they have blood on their hands that wasn't shed in solely just war."

Halid nodded slightly.

"I am in charge of organizing the Officers." My colleague, Admiral Falan is working with him; perhaps I can have her organize a visit," he said, inwardly grinning as even the forward thinking Prince was surprised by the gender. "If you don't mind me asking, you don't seem too thrilled with your countrymen."

Louis, like his Father, snorted at Halid's assessment.

"Would you? Ignoring the extermination program, if that is at all even possible, they have turned Germany from a land of Beethoven into a monstrosity. Being a Prussian was something to be proud of, to think that we let such monsters stumble into power…" he paused, and with a disgusted tone, added, "No, my friend, you have come at a very bad time to befriend the German nation."

Having seen the extermination camp and heard what few horror stories he could find, Halid had to agree with him.

"With the Heer deployed on the fronts, I wonder how you plan on deploying troops into Germany," Louis pressed on, his hands behind his back as they wandered by a small frozen lake. "The Waffen-SS is deployed, yes, but in a matter of a few phone calls and a couple of days, they could be back in the country. That does not even factor in the Allgemeine-SS departments. They may not be soldiers, but they're armed and can fight just the same. They control the police, they control the intelligence agencies... it just seems..."

Louis trailed off. Halid could sympathy. Louis had the heart of a realist. He knew exactly how messy this conflict could become if not done right.

"I would not worry about it," he assured the human. "As we speak Gerd von Rundstedt has drafted together a plan for rapid mobilization of the occupying garrisons. He is presented it to the Führer in the New Year. However, your concerns about the SS are right. For now we want to approach the situation with tact. We will attempt to arrest Hitler and Himmler inside the first hours of the uprising. With those two in depose the SS answers to no one and will be ordered to cease conflict."

The crown Prince Laughed, yet no humour emitted from him.

"You believe that, truly?" He spoke disbelievingly. "The SS has carved out a private playground in the Reich. The military arm of the SS might not press the fight, but the Allgemeine-SS will fight tooth and nail to keep what they have. To think that men like Heydrich would give up because they were ordered to..."

He paused.

"A war within a war... it could spell doom. I am sorry... I just... doubt that I can do a tangible part in the efforts," he admitted his tone still rueful. "I doubt I will be any better a Kaiser than my grandfather before me."

Halid stopped walking and was joined by Louis. He turned back to the Crown Prince and removed his aviators, allowing Louis to meet him eye to eye.

"With all due respect, you will have to be strong, Your Majesty," he urged the Prince, purposely forgetting Louis' request for first names. "The Wehrmacht is a powerful organization that wields much power, but you are being given a chance to wield even greater. You will be representing the will of your people. The mistakes of 1918 were due to a combination of Generals pushing too hard and politicians looking to make a name for themselves."

He paused, thinking of his next words carefully.

"Showing strength, intelligence, conviction as well as an understanding the plight of the common citizen will redeem the Kaiser's image," Zorah spoke purposefully slow for the Prince to absorb his statement. "You will find quickly that this regime's days are now numbered. You will soon have a nation to lead. The Wehrmacht has their representatives picked; they have no interest in the people, just the war. With no opposition they will simply enlist everything to throw at the Russians."

Ignoring the demand made by Fedor von Bock, Halid reached out and poked the Crown Prince in the chest.

"The people will need you representing them," Halid finished. "They will need you protecting them from the Wehrmacht."

Glancing at the finger in his chest, Louis took a step back and met Halid in the eye. Slowly he nodded his head. His expression now much more determined thanks to Halid's explanations.

He knew now what his role was to be.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

 _"You want us to upend our lives... and for what? You won't tell us!"_

The crowd of quarians surged with anger and a smattering of opinions, all of them sharing the similar concerns as the words spoken At least that was the plan according to Admiral Falan.

Why in the hell Hanala was out here on the Citadel was beyond her understanding. Apparently her Father had decided to send her off to work on more official quarian business regarding the settlement on Earth. Today was the last stop. To convince the quarian expatriates living on the Citadel that they should return to join the fleet for settlement.

Unfortunately it meant that they had to convince quarians that were mistrustful to their people, people who assumed that the call for return was a ploy to begin a new military operation against the geth, which was not the case. Not that they were allowed to speak about such plans in the heart of the Citadel.

Why these people stayed here was beyond Hanala's understanding. They weren't living in the wards of the presidium. They had been banished to the shelters, the lowest districts of the station. Refuse, keepers and quarians. All the space the esteemed council could afford to give to the blights who built the geth.

"No, the Citadel not a place which we will spill our secrets," Falan tried to reason. "Just know that your return to the fleet will be for the best interest of the people."

"In case you haven't noticed we have lives here," another voice hissed sarcastically. "We have settled in. It may not seem much to you, but it's our lives!"

Hanala could believe this garbage. To think her Father thought that listen to the stubborn bastards was doing her a favour. She was a week late for her reunion with Joachim; it was the only thing that mattered to her for the time being. She could not even get a message out to him. The fleet had disabled all relay channels to outside of Sol. Missions beyond Sol were to be in the dark, meaning she could not send a message to Hoch, telling him what in the hell she was doing.

"We aren't fools!" one man roared up to the Admiral. "The moment we join the fleet, you enact martial law and recruit all of us into the military for another adventure across the Perseus Veil!"

Next to him a woman widened her eyes from behind her suit glass; she was in a state of panic for even such a suggestion.

"I'm not going to let my son and daughter die for a dead world!"

Falan held her hand up; she wanted peace to return to the conversation. Peace that would not happen.

-"There are no plans for an offensive! I can assure you that everything is-"

 _"We have to move on! We have to adapt!_ _ **NO MORE BLOOD FOR RANNOCH**_ _!"_

The last bit was captured by the crowd and was turned into a sentiment shared by the rest of the crowd.

 _ **"NO MORE BLOOD FOR RANNOCH!"**_

 _ **"NO MORE BLOOD FOR RANNOCH!"**_

The crowd surged and tried to make a move against the Admiral and her. Thankfully the marines stood firm and beat them back with batons and pushed them back into the crowd at loud. Hanala lowered her head, her brain exploded with an agonizing pain brought on by the roars of the crowd, still streaming the exact same phrase over and over again...

 _ **"NO MORE BLOOD FOR RANNOCH!"**_

 _ **"NO MORE BLOOD FOR RANNOCH!"**_

 _ **"NO MORE BLOOD FOR RANNOCH!"**_

Hanala reached down from the platform and grabbed a pistol from one of the marine's magnetic strip. She raised the pistol into the air and fired over their heads. The shot made them scream and roar louder, until Hanala fired a second shot. That was all that was needed. The crowd died down and stared at the quarian woman glaring furiously over the traitors.

" _Snivelling little vorcha BASTARDS, each and every one of you_!" Hanala shrieked to them, her voice high and filled with loathing. "I never thought I'd see my people so pathetic that they would sooner live in the filth and trash of bloated Citadel races then take a leap of faith!"

The crowd exploded into anger, screaming slurs at her in Khellish. One man, however stood out from the crowd, his environmental suit was built off of his old marine gear. He looked ancient and commanded respect from the crowd, enough that they parted out of his way and fell silent.

"We took that leap of faith." The old suited quarian rasped up at the silent young woman standing before him. "Three times I took that leap of faith. I lost everything to you and the rest of the Admirals psychotic assaults into geth space. You are all damned to the void for what you have forced the common people to endure, and you have the _audacity_ to stand here and ask us for more faith!"

Cheers and cries exploded from the gathering, all of them expressing their support for the old veteran who summed up their collective feelings about what the admirals of the past forced them to endure. Hanala could not blame them for feeling in such a way. She imagined most quarians did feel the effect of the martial law installed on the fleet. So what made these traitors special enough to defy the call.

Looking over to Falan, she simply nodded. She was done trying to convince them. It was time to cut their losses and head back to the fleet. These people had made their decision. Silently, she turned back to the crowd.

"I hope that you have your fleet affairs in order," she warned them all, her voice calling high above the cries of the crowd, "We will be cutting off the last of our contact with the Citadel imminently. Anyone who is left behind will be officially exiled under the charge of treason and cut off with any communication to your families back on the fleet."

Such simple words caught them off guard, for the first time, her words brought silence as statement shocked them, those who thought that this was simple military posturing.

"When we leave, in all likelihood most of you will not live to see our return, our glorious retur," Hanala continued her voice hard and unforgiving. "You may not live, but your children and your children's children will witness it and should you still be alive, you will have to answer why you so cowardly choose the easy route and decided to settle for next to nothing."

Drained of words and completely humiliated she had to stand before this crowd and beg for these useless fuckers to return to the fleet, Hanala turned and left, the Admiral not far behind her.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

Watching as his Obergruppenführer signed the consent forms offered by his personal physician, Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler took a seat next to Reinhard Heydrich. He paid no mind to the chattering of the doctors as they warned Heydrich one last time before they were politely waved off by the head of the RSHA, whom leaned backwards into his seat to read the notes on the planned invasive surgery. Still the Reichsführer was not certain what was going on in his head.

It meant more work for him. Himmler would have to organize his temporary replacement while he recovered, which, in all likelihood, would take months. Sighing, to himself Himmler pondered replacements. Perhaps he would give Ernst Kaltenbrunner the command for the time being. Kaltenbrunner was a manageable asset. He would not do anything to shake up the chain of command. He was a loyal, if brutal, man.

"Are you certain you want this?" Himmler asked, his voice trying not to sound too worried for the sake of his second. "Vital organ removal... it's… unfathomable to say the least. Does Lina know that you are risking yourself doing this?"

There was a flash of emotion that crossed Heydrich's gaunt face. It appeared mentioning his Lina, and by extension, his children gave him a pause in his reasoning. Heydrich set down his papers and turned to face the concerned expression being offered to him. It was clear that he had been debating this for some time now.

"She does not need to know, and yes, the aliens forced its implants into me. Halid'Zorah had taunted me over the rejection... Apparently it's slowly killing me... and it's working, look at me," Heydrich spoke indifferently. "Besides, it's just my lung, I have two of them. I'll learn to breathe with just one."

Wincing at the thought, Himmler nodded and was spared from any further detail; an SS-Hauptsturmführer came around the corner. He was short at 5'7, but he possessed an air of confidence that surprised many. He had a pleasant as he approached the Reichsführer and the General, his hand outstretched to them. Himmler and Heydrich stood up. Heydrich, dwarfing the Doctor as it was his turn to shake his hand.

"Doctor Mengele, welcome." Himmler greeted the enthusiastic younger man.

Doctor Josef Mengele smiled brightly to the Reichsführer as he let go of Heydrich's hands. His hands folded together as he turned to carefully inspect the crippled Obergruppenführer with an intense level of curiosity. He was, after all, to be the lead surgeon in Heydrich's operation. Though he was curious in the more experimental sciences, he was certainly one of the most competent Physicians the SS had in their disposal.

"It's an honour, Herr Reichsführer, Herr Obergruppenführer." The Doctor spoke up once more. "I do not want either of you to worry. My abilities are sharp and I can assure you this removal will leave nothing but a scar."

Silently, Heydrich glanced to Himmler and nodded, accepting the confidence in the man. He would submit himself to this Doctor's care.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

"I cannot believe that bosh'tet sent me to the Citadel! I was just granted permission to return to Earth. No instead I get to scream at a bunch of quarian traitors who do not want saving in the first place!"

From behind Hanala, who paced back and forth, her head bowed, her eyes narrowed sat Admiral Falan. She would have been amused had it not begin for the way she spat the words out like poison.

"I know this may seem like something you won't do for some time, but, I think you should find it in your heart to forgive him," Falan finally spoke, her voice as she watched the younger woman continue to pace. "He could not find the words to explain what we had found. There are no words to describe such insanity. The only way we could do so is to show you."

Hanala froze briefly, but only to reach into her jacket pocket. Falan wasn't o topic, she was instead addressing the real issue. Quietly, she pulled out a cigarette and lit it in a matter of a few seconds. Her face was scrunched up as she thought about what Falan had said on behalf of her Father. It did not take a genius to know that the words did not impress her.

"And I believe that was necessary to see the truth," she agreed her voice almost shrill. "Was it necessary to confront Joachim so hostile? Was it necessary to circumvent my plans on breaking the truth to him lightly? No, and my Father has proven himself a conniving son of a bitch for doing so."

Falan smiled slightly, it was an odd empathic smile.

"I see...You miss him."

Hanala tried her hardest not to roll her eyes.

"Was it really that obvious, or are you a savant in deduction, Admiral?" Hanala snapped back at the older woman.

Hanala winced and turned back. She slumped slightly and took a seat next to the Admiral. Rubbing her forehead as she exhaled smoke bowed her head, glancing sideways to Falan, who remained perfectly still, despite the insult shot to her. Hanala sighed, perhaps was being a complete bitch to everyone these days. She just... she just did not know how to feel about everything lately.

"My apologies... I haven't seen him in three months... He's been in Gestapo… a secret police force hands the entire time," Hanala apologized and explained to Falan. "He's been out for eleven local days... He told me to stay away, to not contact him until he was ready... I want to speak to him terribly, yet every time I open a line to speak to the Vienna mission, I... I just… I lose my nerve... I'm so ashamed... I have put him in hell."

Falan coughed, the cigarette smoke clearly bothering her now. It did not go unnoticed by Hanala. She immediately stubbed it out.

"I would have figured you to be addicted to these things by now," she murmured ruefully. "German officers smoke heavily."

Falan shook her head.

"Rommel doesn't have many vices... He doesn't drink or smoke."

Hanala tried not to roll her eyes. It was hard not believe that… a German who didn't smoke and or drink. Odd.

"I kissed him..."

Hanala snapped her head back and stared widely to the thoughtful looking Admiral. Falan looked up as well and tried to remain serious. It failed as she broke into a grin as she seemed to have understood that she and Hanala seemed to have made the same mistake and did something awful with the humans.

"Rommel... I kissed him, I'm not sure why..." she continued, still sounding dazed. "It just felt right at that moment. I want to do it again but he's married... He says he cares about her... but he likes me, I'm not blind to it. It's just... strange."

Unable to keep herself from laughing, Hanala decided herself to lose her discipline. She burst out laughing at the Admirals plight.

"What do you want me to do about it?" Hanala said, still fighting back her laughter at Falan's expense. "Find out where he lived and hit the house with a missile?" Blame it on the British?"

Falan's embarrassed bow of her head vanished as she snapped her head up, aghast by the suggestion Hanala made.

" _What?_ " she breathed back. "Of course not... Maybe... no... **NO** , not at all, that would be wrong,"

Still grinning, Hanala leaned back into her seat.

Well, I know that you may not like it, but men are still unquestionably the ones in charge on Earth for the time being," Hanala spoke up, earning a stern look of disapproval from Falan. "Let him resolve it on his own time. If you are interested in him...Just be available unless he says otherwise."

Utala nodded her head, the grin dying off her face as she turned to look at Hanala much more seriously now.

"Calling martial law is not so much to announce lockdown of the fleet," she quietly guessed as she exhaled the cigarette and turned back to face Falan. "It's to use the emergency powers to override the conclave. To subvert their effort."

Utala'Falan nodded her head gravely. It was a less then ethical power play, but one that they had to use.

"I set forth a nomination a new Admiral posting. Halid'Zorah seconded it. Now it will be in consideration soon with your Father and Vaerhit." Falan spoke up. Taking a deep inhale, she added. "We wish to make you an Admiral."

Hanala blinked. She did not notice the cigarette in her mouth slip out and hit the steel floor.

"Well... acting Admiral at least," Falan pressed on, smiling to the stunned young woman. "You will not have the power over our people. You see... we need another face that represents us to the humans. It would have been your grandmother before she passed on. We feel that you are the only suitable replacement."

Closing her gaping mouth briefly, Hanala gave a soft laugh, unable to believe what she was hearing. Admiral Hanala'Jarva. Were they truly that short of candidates?

"I'm no longer a Captain; I wasn't a very good one at that." Hanala mused. "I would have figured you went for Rael."

Falan shook her head.

"We aren't looking for a ship's captain to be promoted," she reasoned with Hanala, her voice humoured. "You followed in your brother's footsteps, but you have surpassed him in almost every way. Your Brother is a survivalist, who believes that we should continue roaming until we are strong enough to take Rannoch back ourselves. Hees a talented young man and very popular."

Falan stood up and stepped to her, her boot stamping on the cigarette burning on the floor of the ship. Her hand patted Hanala's shoulder as he offered her a slight smile.

"You, on the other hand, have been a very good blending into human culture, you navigated the first steps to friendship, that mixture of fear and respect for each other," Falan pressed. "Ignoring your immature decision to go after the Prothean ship, you did everything right. We, your father, Halid and I at least, are very proud to have you in our ranks."

Letting go, she left Hanala and wandered off in the direction of her quarters. Not before turning back to again smile congratulatory to the woman.

"You have spirit," Utala said. "It will be needed in the future."

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

"This way!"

Breathing hard as he bolted through the snow following the rest of his comrades, Erich Fuhrmann raised his PPSH and shot down a squad of Soviets rushing them. They were almost out of here! Four hundred more meters. They could see relief units battling to hold their position why they battled back the Red Army.

He turned and watched as Oster and Hammer blaze away at the Reds who got in their lines of sights, both of them armed with DP light machine guns, both having abandoned their sniper rifle and flame throwers as the battle waged on. Bohr lost his MG-34 as well and had since replaced it with Mann's MP-40, abandoned after the air evacuation.

Firing together on a lightly armoured BA-64 scout car, pausing only briefly for Hammer to throw an F1 grenade at the vehicle. The explosion tore open the blast shield protecting the front window. Again they fired, killing the driver scrambling to pull his vehicle away from the unit of desperate Germans. Breathing hard Fuhrmann turned and focused on his running instead. They were likely the last men crossing the gap. Manstein was here! Manstein was going to save them!

"SHIT!"

A bullet ricocheted off Hammer's helmet. Blinking, He turned and fired in the direction, ripping a woman partisan, clutching her revolver to shreds. Screaming a long widened profanity at the woman, Hammer noticed others that were with her. Youth and children, all of them armed in one way or another. They bolted like frightened deer. Hammer turned his light machinegun on them and shot the children until they stopped running, until they stopped twitching.

 **"YOU LITTLE BASTARDS!"** Hammer screamed as he tugged off his shattered helmet and threw it at the dead kids. **"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU CHILDREN THINK WAS GOING TO HAPPEN?! WELL YOU LITTLE FUCKS ARE DEAD NOW, AREN'T YOU?! WELL I HOPE IT WAS WORTH IT!"**

Hammer's arm was captured by Bohr who, placed a new helmet taken from a dead Heer grunt nearby over Hammer's head and dragged the dazed soldier until he was running again, running but still screaming at the children for making him kill them. Fuhrmann and Oster shared a glance. Both of them too stunned to speak about what they witnessed.

Around them katyusha rockets rained on them and artillery whizzed overhead. This insanity was a sheer awesome display of terror the Soviets were showing them. Fuhrmann pushed his fears away and continued running through the fog kicked up by the explosives.

At least... he tried to run.

The ground underneath him gave way, it was a rotten wooden plank set down by German engineers to move quickly over the Soviet anti-tank ditches. Erich roared in agony as he rolled over and found that a piece of the plank was now sticking out of his leg. He hiss as his fingers gingerly touched the injury. God, he needed a doctor and fast.

Erich shook his head, forcing himself to focus. There was no time to sit here and tend to his injury. He gripped the chunk of wood and pulled it from out of his wound, gritting his teeth he pulled himself up from out of the frozen muddy trench. He groaned as he stood up, not paying attention that his Stahlhelm was gone. He looked around, lost and confused.

Everyone was gone, nothing but a smoky haze left by two burning Panzer III's, the snow red with the blood of Russians and Germans scattered across the ruins. Squinting, he barely registered that the war was still being waged around him. In front of he could just make out Hanomags and opal trucks picking men up, light panzers were stationed around the light vehicles, holding off infantry.

Erich stumbled forward and fell to the Earth, he groaned, dragging himself back up as he desperately tried to limp towards the last of the men being loaded up. From somewhere in front of him, he could hear his name being creamed at the top of somebodies lungs.

 _ **"FUHRMANN... Driver, wait up! FUHRMANN! HURRY!"**_

But it was too late. The Hanomags were filled, the supplied trucks and even panzers packed. The survivors of the Sixth Army, those that could run, did just that, ran. Fuhrmann, however was unable to do so. With an agony he never before felt, he started after them in a limping running. Through the searing pain he could make all three of them out, Bohr, Oster and Hammer, standing in the back of a speeding Hanomag.

 **"FUHRMANN! DRIVER, HE'S RIGHT THERE, STOP THE FUCKNG TRUCK, HE'S RIGHT THERE! FUHRMANN, I'M NOT LEAVING YOU, KEEP RUNNING, KEEP RUNNING! GODDAMN YOU, KEEP RUNNING!"**

But... he just couldn't.

Helplessly, Bohr, Oster and Hammer watched as Fuhrmann stopped running and simply stood there. The Soviets hadn't noticed him just yet as he stood there amongst them. All of them too focused on gunning down the retreating German attack. That or perhaps they thought he was one of them. Still. he could faintly see Bohr, Oster and Hammer, all three of them screaming incoherently at him, firing their weapons as they were driven away back to the safety of the German lines.

Breathing hard, tears blinding his eyes and thinking of his family as the first Russian turned and took notice to him, in a flash, Erich tugged out his Luger, placing the barrel into his mouth. He closed his eyes; perhaps it was better this way, better then dying a prisoner.

Happier times resonating in his mind, Erich pulled the trigger.

With dull a crack; Erich's legs gave out from underneath him. He never felt the back of his skull blowing out; he never heard the manic screams of anguish, emitted from the men he served with, men who had witnessed his action. He was gone before the Soviets approached him and stripped what valuables he had on him.

He simply died there in the snowstorm, surrounded by the enemy having almost escaping that icy hell created by man, on the banks of the Volga.

Before it was stolen...the watch on his wrist struck 12:00 AM.

A new year had begun… It would be just as bloody and as terrible as the last.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

 **Changes: trimmed back a scene or two.**


	7. January 3rd, 1943

**Chapter Seven: January 3rd, 1943**

 **...**

 _ **"YOU TOLD ME THAT THAT OPERATION WINTER STORM WAS A RELIEF EFFORT, NOT AN EVACUATION OF FORTRESS CITY STALINGRAD!"**_

Generalfeldmarschall Erich von Manstein ignored the staring accusations offered to him by a room filled with the Nazi elite and Heer officers too cowardly to give a word of support and spineless yes men in the Wehrmacht who did not question the Führer.

Standing there in the war room of the Wolf's Lair, Erich instead kept his eyes on Führer,, who was pacing and looking as though he had gone rabid the moment Manstein had entered the room and informed the Führer what he had done. Not that he needed to do so. Friedrich Paulus had called the Führer and told him that he had stolen a good portion of his strength rather than stays to fight for a lost city.

To think that he had to justify saving men from that hell to a corporal, in front of all people, Reichsmarschall Hermann Goering; the bastard head of the Luftwaffe, the reason why he had to launch Operation Winter Storm in the first place. He could not keep his promises now he sat there smirking as though none of this could be laid at his feet.

"And I told you, you did not give me a large enough force to save the city," Manstein spoke carefully to the temperamental man. "The fact that Hoth and Guderian managed to penetrate the lines for fifteen days and held the city for two hours was a feat in itself."

The Führer, however, would not accept such feats.

 _ **"I DON'T CARE WHAT THOSE TWO COWARDS DID!"**_ He screamed violently. _**"YOU DID NOT PETITION FOR MORE MEN, EVEN WHEN I SPECIFICALLY TOLD YOU THAT IF YOU FELT THAT YOU WOULD NOT BE ABLE TO SUCCEED, YOU WERE TO RETURN BACK TO THE LINE. THE SIXTH ARMY IS QUITE CAPABLE OF HOLDING FORTRESS STALINGRAD!"**_

The Führer rounded back and point right to Erich. It was clear that Erich's actions had been the wakeup call the Führer had been refusing to see all along. IT was only natural he would earn the Austrian corporal's ire.

" _ **AND YOU ARE THE GREATEST COWARD OF THEM ALL!"**_ he shrieked at the Prussian. _ **"AS OUR MEN STOOD FIRM AGAINST THE BOLSHEVIKS, YOU PERMITTED A SOFT HEARTED MOMENT TO DESTABILIZE THE SITUATION. THE 6**_ _ **TH**_ _ **ARMY COULD HAVE STOOD FIRM UNTIL SPRING!"**_

The Führer slumped down, his hands resting on the map table. He stared at it with an expression of frustrated disgust. He looked up and glared once again at Von Manstein. It was an expression Erich had more or less gotten used to since the Führer co-opted his plan to conquer France as his own.

"You… you… _Manstein's_ , you think yourself so clever, so much better than everyone else," he spat out. "But let it be known that here and now how your family has shamed the Reich. I should have you removed here and now. Stripped of your position, you family marked in annuls of German military history. Your family are moral and physical cowards without an understanding of sacrifice."

Erich did not have a response as he allowed Hitler's words to wash over him. His mouth was unhinged slightly as he stared into the hypnotic, bulging eyes of the Führer. Since joining the quarian conspiracy, Erich had found himself on the fence for the most part. He hadn't been keen on the idea of usurping command. Prussian Generalfeldmarschall's – after all – did not mutiny. But they also knew the writing on the wall. As such, he had elected to remain passive, keeping his nose down and focused on the fighting in the East.

It wasn't until this moment, the moment the Führer derided his family as cowards, which he decided he was officially on board with whatever the quarians wanted to do. The Führer had unknowingly ripped the stab off the worst wound Erich had ever suffered in his life, and Erich… well… Erich was done being too prideful about it.

"My son, Gero…" Erich spoke, breaking the deathly silence over the command centre. "My… boy was killed in action near Lake Illmen, the 23rd of October. He was nineteen years old."

His head was lowered out of shame he felt for bringing it up. He did not want to bring it up… but Hitler had forced him into it. He could not just have him forsake his son and his sacrifice. As Erich struggled to find the words, and the bravery to continue, he scarcely paid attention to every man in the room recoiled at the announcement he had made so unexpectedly. Even the most ardent of Hitler's personal supporters seemed to soften their judgement.

Exhaling, Erich looked up and stared at the Austrian once again. The Führer seemed stricken, the rage and hatred for the Prussian Junker seemed to subside somewhat.

"He was just a boy, and he yet he still gave his life to serve the Reich," Erich pressed on for Gero. "You say I do not really understand sacrifice, and that I am a coward. Perhaps that is so; but I do know it and my son has paid the price which I should have been the one to pay. Was he a coward to have died for you as well?"

The room was uncomfortably quiet. Erich remained lock eyed with the Führer. He willed himself to remain strong in the face of admitting his loss to his colleagues and to his boss. He had expected Hitler to say something, but he did not. He seemed to be weighing his own thoughts carefully. Instead it was Gerd von Rundstedt who moved in first. The old Junker reached out and clasped Von Manstein's bicep. Erich did not look to him. He held his eyes on his boss.

"Erich," Gerd spoke, sounding unnaturally empathetic to Erich's plight. "Why did you not you say anything?"

Erich's mouth quivered as he struggled to remain detached a he could. All he could do was shrug.

"Thousands of young men died under my command," he breathed to his co-conspirator. "Even as his Father, what right do I have to single _him_ out above all those sons I have sent to the grave?"

Nodding appreciatively to his fellow conspirator, Erich pulled away from Gerd von Rundstedt and approached the Führer. He stopped a few feet short of the man.

"Please, my Führer, Listen to me as clearly as possible," Erich spoke in as calm a voice as he could in spite of his personal disillusionment. "The 6th Army is doomed. It was doomed the moment it was broke it off from the attack on the Caucasus. I saw an opportunity to spare the tears of mothers and fathers who did not have the opportunity as I did to do something."

Swallowing the lump in the back of his throat, Erich fell silent and awaited for the Führer's judgement. The Führer exhaled. As Gerd did before him, the Führer reached out to clasp his arm with his hand. His other hand moved out and gently patted the Prussian.

Manstein… I am… profoundly sorry to hear of your son's ultimate sacrifice," the Führer spoke solemnly. "I would also like to apologize for my demeaning personal attacks against your name, your family. These are… difficult times for all of us. I can… understand your reasoning; I even can appreciate your decision in spite of being obstinately opposed to it."

It left Erich surprised with how genuine it sounded. When it came to him, Erich could never tell what was real and what was a deception. In his experiences, when confronted with loss, the Führer danced around the subject. With the war on his shoulders, Erich could not blame the man for trying to keep a professional barrier between him and the losses. It was what he did, after all.

"We have been at war for three years now," the Führer spoke tersely, his tone as hard as it was, held a small note of compassion in spite of himself. "As first soldier of the Reich, I have only asked you have faith in your Führer. I have never been wrong before. I had been assured that the Luftwaffe would have been capable of keeping Fortress Stalingrad supplied."

Recomposing himself, Erich von Manstein gestured to the fattest bastard in the room, who had puffed his chest out proudly at the call of his master.

"The Luftwaffe… yes..." the Generalfeldmarschall spoke up, some of his authority returning to his tone. "While we are on the subject, I should like to put forth a personal petition that Reichsmarschall Hermann Goering is stripped of his seat as the head of the Luftwaffe."

The words caught everyone off guard, From the Führer to the guards. All of them did not matter. Manstein turned to face Goering, who was smiling, his arms crossed as he looked up to Goebbels for a show of support. This was something the Propaganda Minister wasn't about to give to his rival. If anything, Goebbels appeared, for the first time, grim faced and looking to Erich as though he was the true authority on the subject. It was somewhat heartening to have that sort of respect from a Party official.

Without Goebbels to back him up, Goering turned to face the Führer, who did not say a word in support. The Führer remained stone faced. As though he, like Goebbels, knew that the Generalfeldmarschall was making more sense than either men cred to admit. Goering turned to face the rest of the Heer general staff with a small grin, only to find they looked on him with contempt.

Reluctantly, Goering turned to face Manstein. He looked as though he was confident, but it appeared only skin deep.

"And on what charge is my crimes, Herr Manstein?" Goering taunted the expressionless Generalfeldmarschall. "This should be good for a laugh-"

"Gross incompetence, boasts that you cannot keep, the Luftwaffe is in tatters." Manstein listed off, cutting off the Reichsmarschall as he ignored the gleeful stare belonging to Walter Model. "I have seen the men of the 6thArmy I managed to save. They're half-starved and grossly under-armed. They have had to resort to stealing from the Red Army in order to survive… stealing from the Russians. On the rare occasion a supply plane gets though, it's loaded with equipment they do not need. Summer gear in the middle of winter for starters... the only decent thing I have seen them do is evacuate the wounded, and now even that had ceased!"

Gesturing to Goering, he turned to face the Führer. Incredulous as to why Goering was still allowed in the high command.

"My Führer, this morphine addict lost the air superiority over Dunkirk, the air war over Britain, our cities are bombed because of his failure to close the gaps; and now he has lost control of the Stalingrad situation and has flat out lied to you… and yes, Goering, you lied about the situation!" Manstein pressed on, trying to keep his tone dignified. "For him to still have your ear, With all due respect, this man is unfit for even commanding a train, let alone the Luftwaffe!"

Goering was no longer humoured by the accusations Erich had brought forth; Manstein had drawn blood and dared to say what few men in the Reich were willing to do. Tell the truth about him. He stood up. His eyes narrowed at the taller Generalfeldmarschall.

"You do not know the first thing there is about aerial combat and airborne logistics," the Reichsmarschall stated to Manstein, his hands gripping his belt as he defended himself in front of a staring Führer. "I have been with the Luftwaffe since its inception. I suggest for your sake that you remain focus on your expertise and don't you dare speak of things you are not aware of."

Manstein stood there, his stern expression forming a mild grin as tried to take the pudgy aristocrat seriously. He might have been a renowned fighter ace, but those days were long past. He was a delusional shadow of his former self. In the corner of his eye, he could see Von Rundstedt standing there, folders in his hands and appearing greatly amused to find Goering in such a state.

"I will admit I have a limited experience in the conduct of Luftwaffe, but I know that your transports are not supposed to not cross fifty kilometres of enemy territory with limited air cover," the Generalfeldmarschall spoke slowly to the Reichsmarschall. "I know that fighters should not be sent out individually into enemy territory, I know that micromanaging your military command instead of granting your air commanders breathing to self-aggrandize yourself is only going to lead to continued failure of the Luftwaffe, and I know that your fat bloated ass would probably not be able to fit in your old Fokker, let alone take off, you _morphine sick, bloated,_ _**hedonist**_!"

The command centre went dead silent at the words nearly snarled by Von Manstein. It did not take long before his words worked, Goering's temper exploding. Goering lunged at Von Manstein, looking to beat the skinner Prussian to a pulp. Eric however was quicker. Considering he was fighting an obese addict, this was by no means an accomplishment. Erich's hand lashed out, smashing Goering nose in and watched as the Reichsmarschall fell to the floor, right in front of Führer, whose eyes widened at the sight of his third sprawled out before him.

Manstein turned back to gather his hat and baton left on the table. He turned back marched back to the Führer, who stood there frozen. Stepping over Goering, was now only inches from the Führer

"I have had enough of this flagrant incompetence, the micromanaging, the breathing down my shoulder, the lack of room to operate and blaming men like Von Rundstedt for committing rational acts in an irrational invasion," Manstein informed the Führer, allowing a slight smile to show. "So, consider this my resignation effective immediately, my Führer. As I am sure you have wanted since my action for saving twenty five thousand men from certain death."

Taking a step back, he raised his hand high over his head, saluting the silent Führer. He dropped his hand and was ready to leave; however it was not to be. Hitler stepped forward and took the Heer Generalfeldmarschall by his hand and forearm, his expression serious and scanning. He looked… almost desperate at the reaction.

For the first time, Manstein saw the Führer for who he was.

"Generalfeldmarschall… I have a strict vision to the campaign, but I am not unreasonable. Von Rundstedt and I have made our peace, as you and I can as well," the Führer spoke softly; his anger vanished as he gestured to Gerd von Rundstedt, who nodded. "I can see your anger and I know that it is difficult to sacrifice so many men. But I ask you not to leave. I am surrounded by few men who will challenge me. I ask you to stay, if only for Germany's, sake I ask you to stay."

Von Manstein blinked at the reaction. He had not expected this man to show an ounce of respect for his military commanders. He had frequently forced them to submit to the Führer's will, much to his personal revulsion. Perhaps he had discovered the secret. He just had to show the Führer that he was not a man to push around.

Glancing to Von Rundstedt who had turned the Führer's attention to him, in order to sign off on to use the reserves and garrisons around occupied Europe under the guise for the renewed spring assault, which, in actuality meant to be used against the Führer himself. Manstein decided he would stay. The glorious Führer would not be in power for much long. Spring would come and he would get full reign over the offensive.

This time, with quarian technology, there would be no stopping him from reaching Moscow.

He would avenge his son with blood and fire.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

Groaning, Hoch rolled over off of his bed and hit the floor.

The pain from the fall did not bother him. It was the throbbing migraine burning away his brain cell. He had been drinking since midday of December 31st and had not stopped until Lene sent him to bed last night… at least he thought it was her. It might have been Helena. Fuck, for all he knew it was Hanala, though if that were the case, his pelvis would be almost as sore as his head.

Why in the hell did he let Langer do this to him? Sure, Langer had good intentions, but this all he had been doing since he had gotten home to the Langer. Drink and forget. Well, for now he was going to lay off the drink, get sober and think about his next steps. He had Rommel's mission to meet Bittrich and Guderian about to summon him for God knows what exactly.

There was a brief knock on the door as Joachim stood up and pulled a robe over him. Not waiting for Joachim's permission to enter, in stepped Langer, a cup of coffee in his hand. Hoch squinted. Gerald was wearing full dress uniform regalia. As though he was off to play nice in the political landscape of the SS, which was always the best part of the job...

Shoving his sarcasm aside, Joachim accepted the drink and sipped it.

"Where are you off to?" he inquired as he cracked his neck.

"Berlin," Langer announced as he wrapped his scarf around his neck. "There's been a temporary changing of the guard. Heydrich is undergoing long term treatments for his injuries... lungs I heard Kaltenbrunner is being placed in charge. I've got to go answer to him, all department heads have to."

Joachim frowned at the news, but remained dead silent. Langer ignored the attitude and pressed his hand onto Joachim back, leading him carefully down the stairs and into the Kitchen. He paused and frown as he realized that there waiting for him was Lene, Helena and Fuhrmann. All of them dressed up as though they too would be joining him on his trip north.

"Taking the wife, daughter and Fuhrmann? Am I your new butler perhaps?" he questioned aloud to the family. "Have I been deemed the official child rearer?"

The family did not reply. They simply stared at him expectantly, as though they knew something he did not. Hoch turned back to face Gerald who stood there, a crooked grin offered to the younger man. He did not seem sure if he wanted to smile about this.

"No… I was messaged today; I would have told you if you learned not to drink so much," Gerald spoke finally, shifting all the blame for the drinking on to Joachim. "Hanala'Jarva was out of the solar system doing God knows what. She will be gracing us with her presence this afternoon. I pushed my departure back to welcome her back, so get cleaned up; we'll be greeting her…. Lene invited herself along, as has Helen, something about giving her a piece of their mind."

Lene simply inclined her head, her expression a scowl. Still, she refused to utter a bad word in case Joachim would be offended. Well he wouldn't have been. If anything he needed Lene to say something in that passive aggressive tone that he had come to love. He turned away and looked to Heinrich and Helena. Helena looked very enthusiasm about meeting an alien. Heinrich, having seen Hanala up close and personal, as well as her talents, had far less enthusiasm for greeting her back amongst them. He seemed to have been the only one who knew that Hanala was actually a terror underneath her pretty exterior.

Handing the coffee mug to Langer, he sighed and turned away. They wanted a big reunion? Well he would give them one. It would not be as heart-warming as they were thinking it would be.

"Let me get dress," he spoke dully. "Let's get this out of the way."

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

The sound of twenty-five thousand boots marching into the city of Rostov was enough to bring pause to the local Russian citizenry.

It was by no means a new sight to see Germans marching into their conquered city, now under German administration since December 1941. It was new that the men were entering, not exited from the eastern edges of the city. Another thing that stunned occupier and civilian alike was the state of these twenty five thousand men. Starved, mud caked, wounded, sick and just plain filthy.

The civilians knew better than to gloat openly. These were the men that escaped left Rostov An arrogant army, that assumed easy victory over their countrymen, and came back a shadow of their former selves. For the first time, it seemed the German invaders were not the invincible conquerors the world thought them to be.

Among the slumped shadows of soldiers were hundreds of civilians. Hiwi's, the Germans called them. They were Russians who held a hatred for the communist system they forced under. They served as assistants and German sympathizers. They translated, they ran supplies, and they even helped to fight for the Germans. The reason they ran with the remnant of the Sixth Army was clear. The Soviet government would see to their summary execution for betraying the revolution to the fascist invaders. They had no choice but to follow them.

Glancing up from his boots sloshing through the mud and snow, Christian Bohr accepted a bucket from a Russian woman; her head covered in a red scarf, the bucket marked _'drinking water'_. Nodding his head as the woman rushed away he raised the bucket edge to his mouth and took a long drink before handing it to Oster.

Bohr watched as Oster and Hammer drank, both men were numb with shock and grief stricken just as much as he was. To think that the kid was so distraught that he would shoot himself rather than face the Russians by himself. How could anyone do that? Shuttering as he thought about Erich Fuhrmann's death, he exhaled and turned to Hammer and Oster who had drained the bucket together.

"I know we haven't talked about the kid, but we need to now," Bohr spoke aloud to the other.

Oster had nothing to say. He and the kid had been close. Almost like a sibling. His death hit him harder than expected. He spent most the time in their westward retreat crying for what had happened. Now he was simply drained of all of his feelings. Hammer, as expected snorted.

"Kid blew his head off," he growled lowly. "What in the hell is there else to say?"

Deciding it was in everyone's best interest if Bohr reported Hammer to the Heer psychologists back home, Bohr kept his temper under control for everyone's sake.

"What do we tell Mann?"

The voice belonged to Oster, his tone empty as they continued to trudge along. Bohr glanced to his side and nodded to the fresh faced Heer soldiers gather to watch the march that had now entered the city. All of them stunned at what they saw. All of them likely to have seen combat, but none of them seeing defeat on the scale Bohr had seen.

"He's lost men before, Oster, he'll get over it," Hammer returned voice somewhat more respectful at the mention of the Leutnant. "You remember the whole platoon we had when we started back in early '42? One more isn't going to bother him."

Mann... Bohr had promised everyone would escape. He had failed him.

" _Bucket_."

It was the red scarf woman again; her simple word was spoken in a whisper. Bohr glanced to Hammer, who snorted and threw the bucket to the ground and continued his march. Frowning, Bohr reached down and grabbed the container and handed it to the girl. Thin hands grabbed it from him.

He caught her eyes. Blue eyes, so blue, but lifeless, empty, like she had seen just as many horrors as he had; in all likelihood she had seen more. In a flash they were gone; no longer were they turned him but were instead bowed, like she was subservient to him.

"Thank you," he said, genuinely offering her his praise.

She nodded curtly and left, running off ahead of Bohr and back towards the city, there was a noticeable hobble in her step.

Sighing, he stepped quicker to join Oster and Hammer, who were dead silent once again. Bohr cleared his throat, not realizing it had made Hammer cringe.

"Okay, so Mann will live with it," Christian spoke aloud to Oster and Hammer. "What do we say to his family?"

Hammer rounded back on Bohr, his eyes narrowed.

"The kid is dead, Bohr. He was weak, so no he's dead. Nothing is going to change that," Hammer snapped back to his acting commandant. "It doesn't fucking matte, Herr Feldwebel. So move on."

Bohr clinched his fist, His patience for Hammer no longer there. Mental case or not, Bohr was going to beat the shit out of him.

"His name was Erich... not kid..." Oster spoke, hollowly, his words defusing the tension building up in Bohr, enough for him to turn away. "He was seventeen... and… they let him go... what the _hell_ is wrong our country? We didn't need him with us. He was just boy... he was just a goddamn _child_."

Bohr nodded. He wished he had an answer to that himself. As he opened his mouth to agree, he felt something tug on his jacket. Christian turned and found himself staring into that pair of blue eyes he was fascinated with. There in her hands were a few slices of stale looking bread.

 _"Bread, not much_ …" she managed to get out, looking between the three men staring at her as they continued to walk. Oster emitted a small, toothy grin, while Hammer looked away, refusing to give the Russian a moment of compassion.

Gingerly, Bohr accepted the offering and handed a slice each to Oster and Hammer. He turned back to say _'Thank you',_ but once again, she was gone. He could see the fluttering scarf for only a moment before it vanished.

Chewing thoughtfully at the haunting young Hiwi, Bohr ignored Hammer's derisive snort.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

 _'"We have breached the thermosphere. Arrival planet side in seven minutes, you should probably go back to the passenger bay and strap yourself in, ma'am."_

Wincing at being called ma'am like she was old, new minted Admiral Hanala'Jarva nodded to the pilot and closed the door to the cockpit, finding herself once again in the uncomfortable company of the only other person on the ship. Captain Rael'Jarva, who was fidgeting, He was clearly nervous about this. Why he was, was beyond her. He had met a human before.

Why he was here was a mystery to her. She had assumed her Mother or Father put him up to this. To serve as her babysitter under the guise that he was to be overseeing the German scientists studying under their quarian advisors. Hanala had to admit, Rael would probably do a good job. The position was to keep the Advisers in line and not reveal too much to the Germans. The technological development of mankind would have to come in small careful steps. Leaps... well you did not need to be a historian to know what leaps did to the krogan people.

A hiss came from her omni-tool as she strapped herself in. Glancing at the sender's identification, she frowned. It was from Father. What did he want now? To send her back to the citadel to track down more quarians? Did he want to exile her from off Earth? If that was the case, she would probably have to take a page out of Joachim's book and punch him in the throat.

She trailed off her anger as she read the subject. Her mouth opened slightly.

 _RE: CLASSFIED, ADMIRALS EYES ONLY_

 _Blinking, Hanala read on._

 _Hanala'Jarva vas Earth_

 _The board has passed a 2-1 with 1 abstaining decision on accepting you into the Admiralty board upon the initiation of martial law. Though we are not on speaking terms, I wish to extend a warm congratulations and a desire to begin a professional relationship as our people will require of us. For the record, what I did, I did for your own good. I thought it was needed to avert you from sympathizing with the Regime we are overthrowing._

 _In preparation for the future role which will involve working closely with Halid'Zorah in the diplomatic field, I am forwarding a series of essays and thesis' written by the late Admiral Jalina'Calis vas Kareon. Much of it is dated material, but I suppose that a few trinkets hidden away written from your grandmother are something you would not mind._

 _I use to think that you took many of your mother's traits, but since we stopped speaking you remind me much more of Jalina in her younger days. There were few men and women in the quarian navy who inspired fear in the way she did. It wasn't until your Brother and you that she started to mellow down to the kindly grandmother you were so use to. Honestly you were lucky and I was lucky you two came along. She gave me an endless amount of shit that makes your feud look rudimentary in comparison_

 _Speaking of your Brother, I hope that you will forgive me for sending your Brother along on the next Earth mission. He has a good heart, but he needs to understand that we have a real shot of escaping the slow humiliation of the fleet and building something. Hopefully he will have an open mind about this situation. I am quite aware of the tension built between the two of you. His racist remark about Hoch wasn't unnoticed by me or your mother._

 _As for the one you are in a… well... ancestors knows what you two are in. My position on Hoch is conflicted, as it has ever been. He is a bright man with potential to do anything. He has however been corrupted and requires salvaging. I know that you are quite capable, but I do worry about you, that you will find yourself buried deep in his personal issues. I will not comment further, that is yours and Joachim issues to work out._

 _I wish you luck and congratulations once again,_

 _Your Father_

Staring at the suspiciously kind hearted letter written by her father, Hanala exhaled slowly. Perhaps it was time for her to make amends with her Father. He seemed to have had her best interest.

Hanala looked up to see her Brother, who was fitting his helmet over his head and checking the seals. Flattening the hem of her dress and crossing her leg, she could not help but wonder if she looked that nervous when she first realized she was going to be in the forefront of contact with humans. All she knew was this. Rael'Jarva would be set on the task of watching over the Advisors to the various German scientists. The last thing she needed was him causing an incident with Joachim or someone higher up than he.

Idly, Hanala wondered how Joachim would take working in close proximity to her Brother. By all accounts, Joachim wasn't particularly warm to any of the male Jarva's and he had all but flirted with Veyare. It was little wonder why he distrusted Hoch. Hoch was a bastard and Rael was not afraid to confront people. More or less people backed down when he did so. Joachim, in all likelihood not be so easily humbled

"So anything I should know about the humans?"

The words belonging to her brother forced her attention away from the rest of Grandmother's writings. He sat there, his arms crossed as he inspected his nearly humanized sister with a mixture of apprehension and disgust. Closing her omni-tool and finding her cigarettes, Hanala leaned back into her seat.

"Mind your manners, and don't try to be funny or clever," she warned him as she lit up. "Nine times out of ten, Germans are a serious, brisk people when they're sober. German scientists are even less humoured... if that's even possible."

Turning away from her brother, she went back to reading what was sent to her by Father. While he was barely grasping the concept handling humans, she was taking the first steps to representing her species on an official capacity. She was on the verge of being an Admiral.

If only she could rub it in Rael's face.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

Afternoon was rolled around before the Langer's, the Fuhrmann's and Hoch made it to the Museum, the unofficial first embassy of the quarian people. Checking in with the guards and fitting Helena and Lene with translators, the family wandered up the steps of the closed museum, past more guards and more checkpoints.

Considering how valuable this site was, the guard checks were to be expected. Not only were there aliens in this building, but a large portion of the German science community were learning from the quarians. Joachim wasn't sure what exactly, but Langer and he were certain they would find out soon enough.

"Joachim…."

Joachim paused as he realized that the people gathered by the door were not human. One of them turned to them, her face lit up in to a bright expression. She was dressed more human than most humans he knew, a collection of bright cheerful colours in the dead of winter.

Hoch exhaled and dropped his cigarette to the snow. There no words could describe how good and terrible Joachim felt by having her presence here.

The pale woman in the colourful dress approached the group. From behind him, he heard Helena gasp as the woman coming down the step appeared less and less human. Joachim simply stood there, his hand reaching up and pulled off his cap, handing it back to Fuhrmann. He remained completely silent as Hanala'Jarva stepped off the last step and covered her mouth as she took in the sight of the significantly thinner and almost completely bald man she was in a relationship with.

"Joachim... I'm so glad to see you…" Hanala whispered as she pulled her hand from off her mouth. "w-what did they do to you?"

Joachim did not reply. He simply stood there. Staring at the pretty quarian with a shy smile on her face, he could help but find himself overwhelmed with a sudden, flaring anger for her. How dare she stand there and flinch at the sight of him. This was her goddamn fault, almost as much as it had been Langer's. She might not have told Kaltenbrunner, but she sure as hell got him into a mess of trouble. So between her adventures to that godforsaken Prothean, to humiliating him in front of everyone, things weren't as rosy as she was deluding herself into thinking.

Smiling slightly for her, Joachim's hand grabbed her shoulder. He leaned forward, his head tilting down to look her square in the eyes.

"You're an awful, manipulative, cunt. I'd break your fucking jaw if I didn't love you," he stated as though he was talking about the weather.

The quarian that was suited moved forward as if he was going to attack him. Hanala held up her hand causally.

"Rael... back down, this is between us," she spoke to him, her voice barking an order to the man.

Joachim blinked. It was Rael'Jarva. Sighing, Hanala turned back and touched his cheek, knowing the worse was over. Joachim stared down to her, trying his best not to feel anything for the woman. Together, they ignored the stares of the others as they watched the affection being offered by Hanala.

"I'm... I'm so sorry," she murmured to him.

Joachim remained silent. He nodded once. He did not need to express anything else for her to know that he was ready to move past this.t.

"If I said that… that I loved you…sorry… I mean, that I am _in_ love with you… and I have been for quite a while, would you be a little less upset?" she admitted her voice lost as she buried her head into Joachim's shoulder, "I- I should said it sooner. When you were arrested... I… I thought you would not make it out… They hurt you bad… didn't they?"

Kissing her forehead, Joachim shook his head.

"They knew better then to try anything bad to me," Joachim lied easily. "It's all going to be fine… and… yeah, I love you as well."

Hanala pulled herself back and carefully inspected Joachim. Knowing that he wasn't telling the truth, she simply nodded, accepting that Joachim would talk about his adventure with the Gestapo when he was up to.

Quietly, Heinrich reached out and grabbed his new bride's shoulder. Helena, who was stunned by not only the presence of the aliens, but by the violent display of affection between the man and alien, forced herself to look up to Heinrich.

"To think Joachim thought I was weird…" was all Helena had to say as everyone followed Joachim and Hanala into the museum.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

Unable to sleep like Hammer, Oster and most of the 6th Army remnants were doing within moment of ending their march, Christian Bohr decided he would wander the city of Rostov.

It was the silence which kept him unable from sleeping, that awful silence that scared him from sleeping, kept him from keeping his guard down. Usually the artillery meant that the infantry wasn't coming. Silence was the certainty that the Soviets were preparing yet another of their relentless and psychologically damaging wave attacks. The Finns that had been in Russia described them in the Winter War of 1939 between the Soviets and the Finns. Machine gun crews lost their minds having to gun down so many men for days on end. It was a terrifying waste the Bolsheviks was not afraid of doing. It was disgusting, just plain disgusting.

Passing by a parked convoy of massive panzerkampfwagens which had taken part in relief of Stalingrad, he noticed the crews were conversing seriously to one another. As they looked up to him, Christian nodded respectfully to them and continued on, walking down the empty street. He was not worried about being alone, at this point he was too numb and exhausted to care what happened.

That was when he heard a sound that sounded… off.

The sounds of screams and the roar of a crowd caught his attention. He picked up the pace and ran with what little energy he possessed; unslinging his weapon and raising up in front of him. It was not long before he noticed what was happening. A group of men and women were gathered around in a circle. Some of them screaming and spitting, others were kicking flesh, screaming in their Russian tongue a whole list of insults. Squinting he caught sight of who it was.

Blue eyes, lifeless blue eyes, wide in terror.

Christian widened his own eyes as noticed _her_. It was the Hiwi who kept them watered and fed on their long march to Stalingrad. She was screaming underneath the man, who was surrounded by other men and women, jeering at her and encouraging the man. From here he could hear the dull thud of fists hitting flesh.

They were trying to kill her. God help her... kill her or do something worse than simple death.

Knowing that he could not break the crowd up by his words ad Unable to think of anything else to do to save her, Bohr raised Mann's MP-40, and shot one of the men through his back. He fell into his own blood and made the rest of the crowd turn to face him.

" ** _HALT_**!" Bohr screamed at them, thrusting his MP-40 out at them menacingly.

The fifteen or so of them turned their focus on him. All of them angered by what he stopped. With no words, he raised his submachine gun back up and cut a burst into the air. They did not react and instead stood there. All they did was turn their sudden anger on to their attack who, who remained standing there, his weapon raised at them.

"You will let her go and disperse now!"

His words went unheeded as they approached him, a lone solder. Someone who could kill a few of them but not all of them before they got him.

The threat did not last for long however. The roar of rifles and submachine guns erupted from behind him, the rounds cutting down the citizens and forced him to hit the dirt, rubble and snow. Blinking as he listened to the screams, then a second burst of fire, then laughter. Bohr turned around and found a platoon of men, their lapels containing the two jagged runes.

The Waffen-SS saved the two of them.

The Waffen-SS men were laughing and joking as they approached; all of them admiring their handy work, all of them speaking strange sounding language. A few of them kicked the bodies. One Russian still alive had found himself on the business end of a curb stomping. Another Waffen-SS rifleman leaned down and pulled Bohr up like he was a five year old who scrapped his knee, a face full of smile as he dusted the snow off the grimy Heer shoulder.

" _Nederland_?" Bohr croaked out curiously. He had been to the Netherlands on garrison duty before Barbarossa begun.

The Waffen-SS men glanced at one another as though they were amused that the German was surprised collaborationists would help him. They exploded into their wild laughter. They sounded like lunatics.

Before he knew it the leader of the platoon stepped forward, grinning, his boots covered in blood. He pressed a book of matches, a pack of cigarettes, a bottle of commandeered Vodka and a loaf of Russian rye bread into his hands. The Dutchman patted his shoulder.

"That's right," the older Dutchman spoke jovially. "Be careful, survivor of Stalingrad. Uniformed or not, the Russian is a savage animal. You of all people should know better than to roam among the Slav hordes!"

Still laughing as though the leader had said the most hilarious thing in the world, the men of the 5th SS Panzer Division ' _Wiking'_ marched off, leaving the Heer soldier standing there in a daze., his eyes focused on the pile of corpses the Dutchmen had no hesitation to create.

Slinging his MP-40 over his shoulder, Christian turned back and found the Hiwi scrambling to pull herself up from the snow; her thick clothing tattered to shreds from the act. She was breathing heavy as she tried to gather herself.

Tentatively, he stepped forward, over the corpse of the Russian; the woman tugged off her balaclava and wiped the blood off her mouth and nose, her dark hair limp and looking like large chunks having been pulled out. She looked up, her eyes wide as the soldier approached her. Christian paused briefly to hold one free hand up to motion that he wasn't a threat to her. Muttering to herself in her mother tongue, she clambered away from him and took a seat on the pile of rubble. She was shaking violently as she tried to cope with the mess she had gotten into.

Once again Christian approached her. Dropping the alcohol and bread next to her, he pulled off his Luftwaffe jacket and carefully pressed it into her lap. She looked up to meet his eye briefly before turning back and pulling the warm jacket over her shoulders.

Taking it as a good sign, Christian took a seat next to, ignoring the smell of death around the two of them. Quietly, he opened the bottle of vodka and took a sip. He offered the bottle which she accepted, brushing her dark locks out of her eyes as she winced, the alcohol burning her mouth.

"Russian?" he inquired, offering her only the faintest of careful smiles. She stiffened and shook her head. She looked disgusted by the assumption he had made.

" _Ukrainian_ ," the woman spat to no one in particular. "Not a Russian _beast_."

Christian tilted his head. There was a difference?

"I'm sorry... I did not mean to offend," he returned, unsure how he should have reacted to her annoyance.

Her strained expression slowly vanished into resignation. She again dabbed her balaclava into the snow and wrapped it over her nose. Lacking an aid kit, Bohr felt bad having to let this young woman tend to her own injuries, even if she seemed to have been completely used to this treatment.

"You kill many Russians?"

The thick accent nearly made him miss what she had said. Had he killed many Russians? What a thing to ask.

Though to be fair she wasn't exactly a German woman who kept her mind away from the war. She was living the horrors that this war had inflicted upon them. He had marched through the Ukraine during the march east in 1941. The Russians had burned everything to a cinder to deny the invaders anything of use. Believe it or not, those were happier times back them. To know the Soviets were that desperate.

"Yes… yes I think I have," he replied, trying his best not to grin.

The expression did not go unnoticed by her as she passed him the vodka and gestured to the bread, her eyes wide and hopeful that he would continue to show his hospitality. Bohr nodded and took a drink. Quietly, He watched the Ukrainian rip a large chunk of the bread loaf off and chewed it, there was no dignity in how she presented herself. She was like a starving animal. Christian could not blame her for such crass behaviour.

"Good," she spoke enthusiastically, chewing mouthful of black bread with her mouth open. "Dogs, all of them, starved my family… killed everyone… last one left."

She paused and swallowed. She gestured to her throat, adding ruefully. "Bad German… studied a little in Kiev University. I am sorry."

Smiling bemusedly as she tore into another bite, Christian pulled out a pack of cigarettes he picked off a Russian officer a week ago and gestured it to the woman. Smiling brightly she nodded as she continued to chew. Christian pulled two out and struck a match, lighting the two in his lips before passing it to the waiting Ukrainian, who took it as though it was gold. Carefully she inhaled and coughed rather roughly.

"Thank you," she smiled toothily. "Today is good day, yes? Life has been _shit_ lately."

Bohr nodded his head as he ripped of a chunk of bread and took a bite. She sure as hell did not mince her words, did she?

"Yes it has been… shit," he agreed with the woman as he watched her inhale her cigarette. "It will be better when we're further away from the front line." He paused, adding. "Your German is better than most out here... so is why is it you help us?"

Exhaling, she took another mouthful of bread.

"Quarter German, Father from Odessa," she explained as she chewed. "Your people, Germany... Ukraine's last hope." She paused briefly to swallow. "You do not treat us well, though. Not you... but your people."

Again Bohr found himself frowning at the observation made by the woman. Yes, he had indeed heard that his countrymen abused the locals on occasion. Many got away with the attacks. Rape, as his superior officers routinely warned, would have automatically sent you to the penal battalion. Penal battalions having the highest mortality rates pretty much discouraged such acts; but wasn't always as enforced as many liked to believe.

"Millions want to fight the Russians," she continued as she took another drag. "Men and women all hate Stalin, but your people abuse us instead. No sense, no sense at all."

Taking a heavy drink, Christian nodded his head as he handed the bottle back to the woman.

"No there is no sense at all to it…" He agreed with her. Biting his lip, he gestured to the dead and added. "Has… has anyone tried _that_ before to you?"

He did not want to say the word rape aloud. The word sounded so deplorable to say aloud, and to say it meant that what he tried to stop was something beyond a simple physical assault. Scowling at the bodies, the woman took a drink and set the bottle down next to them. He noticed her flinch as she appeared to think about what he had asked.

"No," she said, glancing to him carefully. "Hit before by angry bolshevik peasants… never raped... lucky…" she trailed off and slowly allowed a genuine smile to grace her mouth. "Though… never was rescued before."

Christian tried to ignore the heat in his face as she simply stared at him expectantly. Like he should say something, anything about why he did what he did. Well, if he was being honest he wasn't sure why he did it. He just saw that it had to be stopped.

He coughed and offered her his hand.

"Christian," he decided to introduce himself. "Feldwebel Christian Bohr, if you're feeling official."

She scoffed the remark; her empty blue eyes scanned his expression before she took his hand and carefully shook it.

"Tatiyana Andrusiv..." she returned. "It's nice to meet you… Christian."

Christian blinked as his hand fell to his side.

"Tatiyana... Isn't that a Russian name?"

Tatiyana did not even pause to think about the query.

"My parents were stupid," Tatiyana spoke plainly. "Death does not erase such a fact."

Christian could not help himself, he laughed. Of all the things he could have laughed about, he was laughing at her dead parents. Thankfully Tatiyana shared the same sentiment. Together they ate drank and smoked, surrounded by dead Russians in a burnt out city in the dead of winter.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

Untangling himself from Hanala's naked form Joachim slipped out of bed and got dressed. Not caring about presentation, he pulled on his boots and carefully stepped out of Hanala's room, closing the door behind him. As much as he wanted to stay there and sleep through the early evening and into the morning, he had other important things to do

Glancing around the Hallways and finding no one, Joachim wandered in the direction to the basement levels of the museum. Joachim nodded to the two guards at the door and stepped through, wandering down the winding staircase, still stained by grenade damage and bullet holes left by that Englishman, Shepard... or whatever he was called. Shepard had really taught the quarians a very valuable lesson. All quarian marines stationed on the planet kept their technology up and not listen to the taunts of human soldiers.

Moving through the Laboratory, past human and quarians gathered for learning, he stepped into a private office. Not before noticing Rael'Jarva standing there with his back turn, he was deep in a conversation with his fellow quarian advisers. Sometime soon he would have to find some time to have a conversation with the man about his sister.

Rael, Joachim assumed, was not a very big fan of his.

"Hello Obersturmbannführer Hoch. You called me?"

Turning away from Rael, Joachim found a quarian in a Heer Oberst uniform. It was Admiral Halid'Zorah, his expression warm and inviting. Joachim stared at him wearily. He wasn't sure whether or not to trust him. Still he had no other alternative. Instead, he simply nodded.

"Yes I did," he confirmed, gesturing to the seats at the table. "Come and sit down."

Halid nodded and entered the room, setting his cap onto the table. His hand reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a package of cigarettes. Halid offered them to him. Suppressing his worry, Joachim grabbed one and sat down as well, lighting up. Halid did not speak; he simply tucked his pack away and crossed his long fingers together. He sat there simply watching, waiting for the nervous SS man to talk.

"I hope you remembered what I said... that I would help in your rebellion, in any way possible," Joachim finally spoke as he pulled the cigarette from his mouth. "I am a man of my word... I will help, but today... right now, what I have to say comes at a price."

Arching his brow at the deal being set up by the Obersturmbannführer, Halid leaned closer to pour himself a glass of water. Halid gestured to the second glass, to which Hoch nodded.

"Name it," he said as he poured a second glass and slid it gingerly over to Joachim.

"Foremost, No more screwing me around over what I want, Langer and his family are exonerated of any trumped up charge you and Admiral Jarva come up with," Joachim returned as he sipped his water. "They walk out of this conflict safe and undisturbed by whatever you have planned next for Germany. They live comfortably in Post-National Social Germany."

Stubbing the ashes off his cigarette, Joachim leaned back to inspect the quarian Admiral. He searched for any sign of manipulation, any sign of deception. For the time being he did not plan on trusting any quarian with anything without careful personal scrutiny. Not even Hanala would be spared of his suspicion.

Halid leaned closer, his expression appearing to be sincere.

"Joachim, if what you present me is valuable, you have my complete assurance. I will do everything within my power to keep everyone you love safe," Halid returned solemnly. "Alaan'Jarva will not be a problem. Neither will any of the men in the Wehrmacht. Gerald Langer and his family will be off limits if what you tell me is workable."

Joachim could not believe that he was doing this. This was it; his last loyalties to the organization that treated him like family had been officially cut now. He was nothing more than a traitor now. Someone he would have scorned had this been a year ago.

"You... have a window of opportunity," He whispered carefully. "Langer is in Berlin; apparently Heydrich is in treatment for chronic illness. He will be down and in rehabilitation for a solid month... maybe two. In the meanwhile, Himmler has quietly made Ernst Kaltenbrunner acting head of the RDSHA until Heydrich's recovery."

The bright quarian eyes slowly widened at the implications the disgraced Obersturmbannführer was making. Heydrich was out of the picture, ever loyal Heydrich who would rather die than turn on his superiors. A man who was likely to succeed Hitler himself one day; Replaced by Ernst Kaltenbrunner, who had far more humble political aspirations.

"He will have, or already has the keys to access every high official in the Party," Hoch spoke to the quarian, voicing the Admirals musings, "All the way up to the Führer himself."

Hoch could see the quarian shaking with an unexpressed jubilation at the news. It made Joachim sick to think this schemer was already plotting. Finally, Halid looked up, no longer able to hide his grin.

"What do you know about Ernst Kaltenbrunner?" Halid inquired, forcing his quaking voice to sound professional. Taking one last drag of his cigarette, Joachim stubbed it out and leaned back into his seat, crossing his arms.

"Other than he's a complete psychopath? That he a hypercompetent and that the one thing he values the most in his life is his life., Joachim warned the attentive Admiral. "Do not get me wrong, Ernst is no coward. He'll fucking kill you and if he doesn't get you, he'll send his friend Skorzeny after you and the rest of your conspirators and then you all will be in a world of shit."

Joachim trailed off and privately relished in how affected Zorah looked at the mere mention of Otto Skorzeny. He might have disliked the brick wall disguised as a human, but he had to respect him.

"However," Hoch continued. If you were able to play the angle right, to inspire some sense fear into him, he could sell his loyalty to you for a very massive price."

Halid nodded, for the first time appearing grave.

"His life and his freedom..."

As Zorah plotted away privately, Hoch stood up, his conscience getting the better of him after his mind supressed all his loyalty, all his faith, all of his values. Everything came to the surface and made the suddenly realize what in the hell he had just done. He did not just sell out the SS, or the leadership of the government. He could live with that. What he could believe he forgot was that he had just sold Langer out as well.

Hyperventilation was setting in. Paying no attention to Halid, Joachim scrapped the chair back and placed his head between his knees, and, with the best of his abilities, tried to catch his breath before all of his sudden self-loathing for what he had done shut down his lungs in an attempt at suicide.

A hand pressed against his back.

"Hoch..." Zorah spoke from behind him, "Hoch, are you alright?"

Joachim did not reply; it took a good long moment before Joachim pulled his head back up and stood, his hand rubbing his stubbly hair. He turned back, his expression numb and resigned to his betrayal.

"Langer..." he whispered to the Admiral. "He's going hate me... I told you things… and… he's going to hate me… He's going to find out that I've betrayed the cause…"

Trailing off helplessly, Joachim slid down the side of the door until he hit the hard cement. His arms wrapped around his knees as he sat there semi-foetal. Exhaling, Halid took a seat on the chair Hoch had been sitting.

"Yes... "he plainly agreed with Hoch. "Yes, I think Gerald Langer will hate you. To be perfectly frank... once this happens... I doubt very much he will want anything to do with you ever again."

For the first time, Joachim knew that he had not been lied to by a quarian. It was harsh, but the fact that Zorah was agreeing with his sentiment only made him feel that much more terrible. Langer was family... even if Langer did not consider him real family...

"It's alright, Hoch..." the Admiral assured the mourning Hoch. "Whether they hate you or not, The Langer family is going to be safe. It is more than many others will get. You have to understand that you will not be able to save everything… so it's all going to be alright-"

Before Halid could go on, Joachim launched himself back up to his seat and violent marched over to the Admiral.

"It's not going to be _alright_ ," he hissed. "You'll have to forgive me, Admiral, but selling out everything I've ever known is not something I do lightly. You have no idea what I am doing, what every German you have made contact with is _doing_. We are risking everything and everyone while you sit up on high and play us like a chess game."

Exhaling sharply, he ran his hand through his buzzed hair.

"I'm... I'm going to be alone again..."

He felt lame, for saying that, like he was a child. But this was what he felt; this was what he was giving up. A family that he loved so much he would trade that warm feeling for their safety. He was no better than the scheming Jew that Nazi cartoonists came up with. A backstabbing, deal making coward…

"I know that, Hoch. I know how much every human involved is risking," Halid nearly whispered, catching Joachim away from his angry thoughts. "I know that I will never comprehend how dangerous life is for the conspirators... One slip up at one place could lead to the deaths of thousand... men women and children not even involved with the operation..."

Smiling slightly, he added. "You have no idea how grateful I am."

Hoch nodded blankly and turned away to finish the last of his water. Glancing back, he noticed that Halid had grabbed his peaked cap and pulled it on.

"I have to go and inform the Prussian circle about your news... rest assured that the Langer's are safe no matter what they think of you," Halid concluded standing up and stepping to the doorway. Patting Joachim's shoulder, he added. "Go back to her, Joachim. Make sure you congratulate her... Hanala'Jarva will be made an Admiral soon..."

Halid departed, leaving Joachim stunned at the revelation.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

 **changes: Clean up. Deleted filler. Added Erich von Manstein's bit about his son.**


	8. January 7th,1943

**Chapter Eight: January 7th, 1943**

 **…**

Entering Joachim's study, Hanala'Jarva closed the door behind herself and remained silent, leaning against the door. From there she watched him. She allowed her eyes to scan over the new, damaged Joachim Hoch, even more damaged than she had done to him. Thin and looking permanently ill, a scar running down his chin all the way to his collarbone, his eyes once filled with an arrogant confidence, which Hanala had to admit, turned her on.

Ancestors damn the Gestapo for doing this to her Joachim.

Ancestors damn Langer for selling him out to the Gestapo.

Ancestors damn Greta, Joachim's Jewish potential sister-in-law for shooting him and thereby forcing an investigation into Joachim's background.

Ancestors damn herself…

Hanala could not believe what she had done to contribute to this. Lie on the behalf of others and even then she was kept in the dark. She was used by the board herself, but she deserved it. She had proven herself rash and irresponsible and went to that ship in the desert, using a series of lies to trick Joachim, again!

As she said to her brother, Joachim was completely justified in what he did. She was lucky he didn't press his attack. It meant he had restraint and restraint meant he was still mentally competent. That meant that one day, perhaps one day everything would be fine, that things would go back to the way they were. It would be a long road, but one worth making every possible effort for.

Still... it would be a long time before that, for Joachim might have been competent, it did not seem by much however, for here Joachim sat, unnaturally silent, like he was already dead. His focus was centred on a pile of paper work and maps. Furiously writing with a lead based instrument, His eyes darting back and forth on the stack of papers before him.

"What's your plans?" she called out uncertainly. She wanted to know what he was doing, but that did not mean she wanted to face down Joachim's anger for a direct answer.

There was no anger however. Instead, Joachim merely grunted, one hand reaching across the table as he grabbed his drink -alcoholic naturally and took a generous gulp.

"I am organizing a trip east to find my old division commander, Wilhelm Bittrich. I will be leaving tomorrow morning. He's heading up a calvary division now," Joachim explained as he leaned back into his seat, his eyes wandering up to meet hers at long last. "He was a decent enough man if I recall him correctly… With any luck we can split the Waffen-SS up into factions to lessen the likelihood of fighting the entire SS... Rommel's request... "

He paused and exhaled sharply. It was as though he was disgusted with himself despite having no reason to be. Hanala could see the doubt in Joachim new role building up in him. He hated what he was trapped into doing.

"I suppose I have to start being a team player," he spoke distastefully, loathing clearly evident directed towards him. "I have already sold everything out that I believed in, might as well do it right and ruin everything else I worked for."

Hanala bounced on the tips of her toes as her thoughts searched furiously for a redirection to keep Joachim from falling into a state of justifiable melancholia.

"Shall I come?" She spoke suddenly before she could put serious thought into her words. "On your visit to this Bittrich… would you like me to go with you?"

Joachim simply stared. It worked, he was distracted enough to offer her a mild grin, a mocking grin, but a grin nonetheless. It was better than nothing, so Hanala would take it as a victory and another moment that she managed to keep Joachim's self-directed hatred at bay.

"You want to go back to Russia?" He questioned her with a laugh and a shake of his head. "No, _Admiral_... the last thing I need for you is to end up dead. God help me, when this is all over, you'll be the last personal relationship I will have."

Frowning at his pessimism, Hanala stepped closer, taking a careful seat on his lap, her arm wrapping around his neck. Yes, he was right. The last place she wanted to be was in that godforsaken country. It was nearly a local solar year that she crashed the Devoas into the Russian countryside, a year since they first met… Perhaps a celebration could be in order…

"I'm not an admiral yet..." she spoke quietly, her tone humbled at the reference to her soon-to-be rank. Joachim only cocked his brow at the softly spoken statement. It appeared to her that news of her promotion on the horizon was still of great amusement to him.

"Maybe not, but you are in waiting to become one. You might as well get use to me calling you one… even if I'm sleeping with you..." he murmured as he swirled his drink in his machine hand, his human hand pushing into her firm stomach, his many fingers spreading and contracting. Huffing a laugh, Joachim added, "You're about to become a superior rank than I... Lord knows how that happened... I was under the impression they realized how lousy you were as a Captain."

Hanala hissed in protest, yet managed to convince herself not to hit him. She would lay off the abuse for the time being, even if Joachim was speaking like a contemptible bosh'tet nearly on par with that asshole Xen. Or worse still, like her Brother, Rael.

Cracked lips touched against the back of her neck, causing the woman to suppress a purr as she arched her spine at the surprising display of affection.

"I'm teasing," he assured her. "I am sure you will be fine."

Hanala turned back, offering him a faint smile. It was exactly what she needed to here from someone she cared about.

"Thank you," she whispered shyly. "So… tomorrow you leave?"

"Tomorrow," he confirmed, nodding his head. "I'll be back in a few days, but I won't be coming back here. I give you the details, but most likely I'll be in Munich."

He paused, rolling his eyes in disbelief as he added. "I am to be denazified by Heinz Guderian himself, according to Rommel. I will bring you then… Rumour has it we'll be heading back to North Africa. Guderian is being sent down there to help."

Hanala nodded as she leaned in to bury her head against his chest. In all honesty, she would be glad to return to the North African region. So long as they stayed far away from that crash site, she would be fine with returning to the place where her people were to settle. As it would be nice to see where Rommel and Falan had buried Grandmother.

 _Keelah_ , she wished her Grandmother was still with her….

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

With the remnants of the Sixth Army now fed and mostly rested. Since they did not answer to Army Group Don, they were placed on assignment as a policing and labour force to the city of Rostov until the trains made it to the city to take them back to Germany for refitting.

Thanks to Tatiyana clinging on him since they met three days ago, it was decided that he would work with her in local affairs, serving as one of the many representatives of the Heer and Waffen-SS to the local citizenry, trying to keep the relations going from dismal to flat out rebellion. It was difficult work, but it sure as hell beat going back out into the field or doing what Bohr and Oster were doing: making and laying sandbags to prevent the inevitable flooding come the winter thaw.

He also found himself no longer reporting to the barracks at night. Rostov was a logistical nightmare. They kept an eye on your actions to make sure that there was no desertion, but what you did in the city was none of their concerns. It meant Bohr could ditch the hard military barracks left behind by the hastily retreating Red Army. Instead he found himself staying with Tatiyana.

It wasn't of a sexual nature and neither was it much better than a barracks. Tatiyana was forced to live with the Hiwi's until Christian showed up. They moved her things out of a hovel and into an apartment that was mostly abandoned. It was damp and cold but a fire took care of that. In the end Christian decided it was in her safety that he stuck around, kept an eye on her. Thankfully she was only too happy to oblige,

It was a strange relationship to say the least. Like a married couple, but without any commitments, or any of the perks a married couple had. It did not matter to Christian however. It was good to get away from Hammer for a while, and it did offer a change in conversation to something other than how to kill and survive. Sure, Tatiyana relished in conversation about dead Russians, but at least she could talk to him about something new, about life in the Ukraine, how she viewed the invasion, what her family life was like before Stalin starved her family.

"Feldwebel!"

Breaking his thoughts, he turned back to find a stocky Oberst jumping off the edge of a Tiger and stormed angrily towards him and Tatiyana. Bohr stepped past her and clicked his boots together, saluting the superior officer, which the Oberst, an older looking man returned briskly. He pulled off his spectacles' and glanced briefly to Tatiyana as he wiped them off on his sleeve.

"Have your translator tell those backwards simpletons to move to move their cattle carts, they're holding up my convoy!" the officer ripped into him.

The Oberst gestured back to his long line of Tigers, Panzers III and IV's and troop transports towing field artillery behind them, all of which battle ready and heading straight to the front. They were halted however by half a dozen carts hooked to mule teams. Surrounding the carts was what looked like several families, yelling at the soldiers and Hiwi volunteers to no avail.

Snorting in disgust and spitting into the mud and snow, the Oberst turned away. Bohr came to attention once more and saluted; he turned back and gestured to Tatiyana who sat up from her seat on the concrete barriers. She appeared somewhat nervous at what she had had to do. She was fine speaking to small groups one or two, but she was still pretty shaken by what had happened to her a few days ago.

 _"It's going to be fine, Tatiyana,"_ he assured her sincerely. _"Now come, I don't think Oberst four eyes would appreciate procrastinating..."_

Listening to her laugh, Christian unslung his Leutnant's submachine gun. Together, he and Tatiyana approached the Russians. Knowing that he was there seemed to have made Tatiyana somewhat more confident as she stepped forward and past him, the sound of that rough Russian language escaping her lips and causing the farmers to turn to them. Someone was speaking there language, and judging by the way Tatiyana's soft voice spoke, it was not to scream and order around.

Of the group, only one woman stepped forward, she was heavy set and old, weather beaten by the harsh existence Russia subsided in. Silently, Christian wondered how there women could turn into something that could pass as a man. Glancing over Tatiyana, he assumed it must have been due to a lack of Ukrainian genetics.

Noticing Tatiyana turn away from the crowd and approach him, Christian shook his head and readjusted his posture. She looked troubled as she glanced back to the still jabbering babushka, and then focused on the soldier once again.

"They… they're saying Latvian soldiers… harassing their town, Azov, southeast from here," she spoke uncertainly, as though she did not want to say it in case of a serious reaction. "They demand something to be done about it… But they don't know who to go to… your people hate them more than Ukrainians it seems."

 _Latvians_. He should have known, like parasites on a superior organism, they latched onto the German dream of a conquered Russia, just as every other Baltic state did. The thing was they were quite often even less civilized than the Russians were. Old grudges from the fear of annexation and isolation from the rest of Europe it seemed. Most of the time this was not a bad thing if it was applied to fighting against the Red Army, the thing was they weren't very effective at that, they instead found their talents in doing what these farmers here were complaining about, harassing the locals as though they were the ones to blame for everything.

"Tell them to pull their carts to the side and we'll talk," he said to Tatiyana. "Just how many Latvians are there?"

Tatiyana turned back and caught the old woman's attention once more.

"Thirty, forty… maybe fifty perhaps..." she translated on the fly as the woman replied and was pointing in the direction they came from. "Yes, they're saying they're stealing their food supplies… some abuse."

Christian frowned and rubbed his mouth as he watched the carts pulled away from the convoy, which roared all their engines back to life and rumbled down the debris strewn city streets. Slinging Mann's MP40, he joined Tatiyana .Something needed to be done. The last thing the German cause needed was more press brought upon by the roaches.

Silently, he reached into his jacket pocket and removed a pad of identification sheets and a pen. He scribbled his signature onto the document. They were temporary citizen passes. Tucking his pen away he handed the papers to Tatiyana, who stared at them curiously.

"Tatiyana, tell them to stay here and do not progress any further into the city," he spoke, which Tatiyana translated right away. Pointing to the papers, he added, "This is to tell the garrison they have temporary shelter in this sector until I resolve this matter... If they do not comply, they will be summarily kicked out or worse..."

Ducking the old woman's overjoyed mood and attempts to grab him, Bohr turned on his heel and semi marched away. Tatiyana, like she was chained to him was not far behind him.

"Wait… Christian, where are you going?" she asked him.

"I'll organize what I can from my men and the rest of my unit and see if we can end that harassment. I only have two under direct command, but I'll speak to Oberst Koenig..." He returned not directed to her specifically. It was more along the lines of thinking aloud.

Glancing back to the woman, he added. "Do you speak Latvian?"

Tatiyana scrunched her nose and shook her head. Christian allowed a slight grin to cross his mouth.

"Well then," he said dryly. "Let's just hope they have a German commander or one of them speaks Russian. I don't l know Latvian for ' _stop being bastards'_."

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

The telephone in his study had interrupted his lunch and his conversation with Hanala.

Joachim hated the telephone, well; he hated all forms of communication technology, preferring instead a face to face. The quarian omni-tool slapped on his wrist was not much better. It was complicated as hell, not to mention how annoyed he could become whenever Hanala opened her up doing whatever it was quarians did with omni-tool. He doubted he would ever get use to the contraptions.

This time was different however. He was thankful to escape the lunch setting. It was hour three of Hanala talking about their situation. Trying to poke and prod him into talking about the things he wanted to do nothing more but forget about. She seemed to be in this foolish mind-set that Hanala could ease him of his three months in Gestapo custody, or worse, would try to share the burden. Like his words would be able to accurately convey what being beaten for an hour every day with batons, suffering from sleep deprivation, his fingertips on his remaining human hand burnt by phosphorus matches. The standard treatment of Gestapo prisoners who could, in there book, be salvaged.

Well she wouldn't understand. It was one thing to be beaten by an angry Pollack, it was quite another to be torture by the same men he spent a decade believing that they did good work…

 _"Joachim Hoch?"_ the voice spoke on the other end of the phone line.

"Speaking."

The curt tone in his voice must have caught the caller off guard. It took several moments before a reply could be formulated.

 _"It's Mann..."_ the voice spoke unsteadily, as though he was afraid. _"Helmut Mann?"_

Joachim blinked and took a seat behind the desk. Helmut Mann… what in the hell did he want? They might have been friends in the old days and a visit with him before Christmas was a nice catch up, but all of that was in the past, buried along with everything else. Joachim suspicious mind drew up several hypotheses already. Most notably Mann wanted his help.

"We saw each other not a few weeks ago, so I'm going to assume I already know how you are." Joachim half-heartedly teased his old friend. "What can I help you with?"

 _"I'm doing a lot better, I'll have you know,"_ Was the impervious reply to his old friend's snark. _"As nice as pleasantries are, I'm calling about what I spoke about when we were drinking. I got word from my Feldwebel, Christian Bohr. They escaped Stalingrad!"_

Joachim could feel the sheer joy and relief radiate across telephone line and exited through phone speaker. He could not help it; it felt good that a few under his command escaped that mess. It also meant something else. Heinrich Fuhrmann's younger brother would be back in the safety of being behind friendly lines rather than trapped in a pocket, waiting to die.

"Congratulations."

 _"Yes... It's wonderful news. You made it sound like an impossibility, but here they are,"_ Mann spoke, his tone rather pleased by his friend's approval. _"It's just... they're going to be stuck in Rostov for another week or two while High Command organizes their transportation home... I was wondering if you could help me."_

Here it was. What Mann wanted from him, the only reason he felt it necessary to call. Sighing, Joachim rubbed his eyes, His pupils downcast as they looked at the telephone's mouthpiece. Perhaps he would help them. He was going to be in the region, seeking an audience with his old divisional commander. He could swing down from the central front and pick them up. After all, this squad had Erich Fuhrmann in it. Heinrich Fuhrmann's little brother saved by him would serve as a way back into the Langer family when the truth became clear to Gerald.

If Lene and Helena could be convinced that he was doing the right thing and was helping out Heinrich as well, then perhaps they would not hate him once his actions fell into motion.

"I'm actually off on some business in Russia. I will be flying out there tomorrow." he admitted to the Leutnant who was listening intently. "When I am done... I could head down to Rostov and pick them up."

 _"I know… Heinrich… Fuhrmann pushed me to call you about it_ ," Mann admitted his voice sheepish and worried that he had offended the SS man. _"Christ... I ... I thought I was going to have to fight you for it."_

 _Fuhrmann_. Joachim groaned. He should have guessed the he was being tricked into helping instead of simply approached. Was he that much of a bastard that everyone needed to lie to him in order to get whatever they wanted?

"Well… I have a mutual interest in their return then," Hoch spoke finally, biting back his growing annoyance and disgust. "Fuhrmann stumbled his way into an SS family I'm... close to. Erich's return will be a gift, though not for long, not when I kill him for gossiping with the likes of you."

 _"Try not to. He's a good kid… Thank you for everything…. But…"_ Mann exhaled, the phone line emitting his nervous chuckling as he added. _"One or two more thing though. You see...First, one of my men has... well...he needs serious therapy... I want you to take official command of the squad. Showing some theatrics as a big scary Obersturmbannführer will set them straight, perhaps knock some sense into him until he gets proper help. Second, Bohr stumbled onto a civilian... some peasant from the Ukraine. Apparently she's Volkgerman.. He's taken a shining to her, I think."_

Leaning back into his seat once more, Joachim's free hand dug into his pocket for his cigarettes. He was starting to regret saying yes to the request. Now he was shipping around a German in name only woman whom likely had dirtier blood and questionable heritage then an average American? Not to mention the amount of bureaucracy brining an ethnic into the Greater German Reich. This was starting to become more of a hassle then he wanted to get involved in.

However, like a good friend, he would do what he could, even if he did not like it.

"I can break your squad's discipline issues," he said as he exhaled cigarette smoke. "Dragging home a stray presents a different challenge. I'll see if I can do it… Though I imagine I will have to spend hard earned money giving her, her rabies shots, delousing and making her presentable for inspection…"

The other end of the line burst into wild uncontrollable laughter. Joachim blinked; Mann must have thought he was telling a joke at the expense of this woman. He was being as serious as the grave.

 _"That's all I care about Hoch, you making an effort,"_ Mann laughed and sighed. _"I told them all the old horror stories about you. I think you'll like those boys. If you need a squad for personal use, then they're the best you'll ever find."_

More Heer infantry working under him? He was starting to feel outnumbered.

"I'll consider it once you finish recuperating; I think they want their leader before they answer to the likes of me," Joachim spoke finally, his voice lightning up somewhat. "Fair warning though, when I get there and any of them calls me _'Herr Obersturmbannführer'_ , I'm going to break their fucking heads. You never call a Waffen-SS man _'Herr'_. Jesus, I have to deal with that garbage from Fuhrmann all day, every day."

Together, the two men laughed.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

Fuelling their beaten up Panzers and borrowing Hanomags and equipment from, of all people, the 5th SS Panzer Division 'Wiking'; the highest ranking officer to escape Stalingrad, Generalleutnant Arthur Schmidt led eight hundred of his battle fatigued men through the city and to the outskirts of Azov, 25 kilometres from Rostov. The town also nestled onto the Don River.

It was a surprise how quickly and large a reaction he had gained from him speaking to Oberst Koenig. Before they knew it, Tatiyana and he had been dragged up to meet the General who had escaped Stalingrad, the chief of staff to Paulus. It appeared life wasn't easy for the Commander. He had spent the past week receiving the blunt of the blame from Manstein. How did he know? Generalfeldmarschall was there when Koenig dragged him into a meeting. It was Manstein's insistence that something be done about the Latvians.

Though this may have been made an assignment to the last free men of 6th Army, behind them trailed a staff car, moving slow and under heavy protection of half a dozen Panzer IV's. It was EGeneralfeldmarschall Erich von Manstein in all likelihood, making sure that his new subordinate did what was requested of him.

Erich von Manstein did his time in the last war. His preference to lead from behind was quickly forgiven considering how many victories he had bought them. A valuable mind that could not be bogged down in short term thinking, It was rumoured he was already preparing not one but two offensives for this New Year.

Turning back to the occupants of the Hanomag, they all seemed to have taken offense to them sharing a transport to one unofficial member of the Heer, Tatiyana Andrusiv. Oster seemed to be disinterested in her, but Hammer was glowering, but remained focused onto the rifle in his hands. On occasions he could be heard muttering _'pet slav'_ to himself.

Of course, it not help that Christian dragged her off to the supply depot and fitted her for her very own uniform, winter jacket, Stahlhelm and even went so far as to arm her with a Pistole 615(r), essentially a renamed TT-33 Russian service pistol. The fact that this woman had somehow stumbled her way into the squad served to annoy Hammer to now end.

Well, considering that Tatiyana made sure they did not die on the march back from Stalingrad, accepted into squad was the least of their concerns. Besides, it was a rather dirty little secret that just about a quarter of the men who marched into Stalingrad were Russians and Ukrainians. Serving mostly in support roles initially, the Hiwi's were quickly promoted to riflemen and gunners.

Hitting a bump as they turned off the dirt road and onto pavement, Tatiyana jumped, her hand gripping his for a brief moment before letting go. Quietly she raised her hand and gestured in front of them. Christian looked, standing up to take in the sight, as did the rest of the occupants of the Hanomag.

He could not believe what he was witnessing.

Azov was burning like the gates of hell in the dead of winter.

Christian sat back down and pushed his hand under his Stahlhelm to rub his hair. There sure as hell must have been more than fifty men who did this… Glancing out the side again, he watched ten Latvians line up a group of Russians and shoot them down as they passed by them. The faint sound of laughter was audible over the noise of the rumbling vehicles.

Before they knew it, the line of vehicles came to a screeching halt and the orders came for the men to unload from the transports. Stunned by the death and destruction, Christian, Kurt, Johann and Tatiyana grouped together, watching as the Latvian legion soldiers wander through the town looting and shooting. The screams of women brought a state of shock to the men and woman surrounding the Feldwebel.

Approaching them was a grey uniformed SS officer, tall and youthful. His expression humoured by the presence of the beaten up Heer soldiers watching the mess he was a part of, like he looked down on the men who did not swear personal fealty to the Fuhrer.

As humoured as he might have been, His expression became serious as Generalleutnant Schmidt pushed through his men, his eyes hard and unforgiving. The Waffen-SS man showed significant more respect as the General stopped before the political soldier. Salutes were briefly exchanged between the men.

"Where is the Heer garrison, Standartenführer?" The Generalleutnant asked, his eyes flickering back to the town and to the screams emitting from the inhabitants. Not paying any attention the anger in Heer General, the Standartenführer glanced back as well, almost proud of his handiwork, his eyes glimmering with personal pride.

"Manstein ordered them up to join the breakthrough to Stalingrad." He explained, just short of taunting the men before him. "This town is SS jurisdiction now."

Generalleutnant Schmidt crossed his arms.

"So you burned the town down?"

The SS man nodded, his face unmoved.

"Yes, this is officially a training exercise for the Latvians." The Standartenführer stated, allowing a slight grin to return. "The Führer has deemed them permitted to join the Waffen-SS. This is an exercise for our future exploits here in Russia... They've taken a real shine to it."

He paused.

"Say what you will about our collaborators, but they certainly want to impress us," the young SS man observed.

The Generalleutnant did not reply. He simply offered the Standartenführer another salute and dismissed him. The SS officer smirked at the watching Heer men and marched back to his trainees. Back to the chaos and barbarism he allowed to occur on his watch.

The men gathered around the Generalleutnant came to a sudden attention, forcing Schmidt to turn his attention. Approaching them was Generalfeldmarschall Erich von Manstein, his eyes glancing about, inspecting the burning town and the dead lying haphazardly where they were executed. He looked shocked, disgusted at what he was looking at. He was a hard man to shake, but judging by his reaction, it certainly caught him off guard.

"Herr Generalfeldmarschall?" Schmidt called out, his voice curious and respectful, if only because of the rank standing before him.

Voin Manstein did not reply at first. He looked at the thin masses he had saved from Stalingrad carefully then back to the bodies scattered. The men of the Sixth Army shared uneasy looks. To them, to Christian, this was not new. Trapped in a city with a large civilian population still in the German zones, these incidents were more common than Bohr cared to admit,

Christian glanced to Tatiyana, who looked around like the Generalfeldmarschall had been doing. She might have hated Russians, but this was beyond reason. Even to a woman who watched her family wither and die for the Bolsheviks.

"Just how many Germans are amongst these Latvians?" Von Manstein spoke in a low tone, it was extremely distant.

"Training officers…" Schmidt informed the Generalfeldmarschall. "All of them appear to be Waffen-SS men."

Nodding, Von Manstein pushed past the Generalleutnant and stared at the burning town, His hands behind his back as he stared off intently. It would be only a few moments before he uttered an order no man had ever expected to hear.

"Kill them, Schmidt…"

The words were simply spoken by the Prussian. There was no malice, no disgust, no emotions whatsoever as he watched the chaos unfolding before him. It was simply an impersonal order made by the Generalfeldmarschall. He paid no attention to the infantry shocked by the strange order, nor the widening of the Generalleutnant's eyes. Getting no reply, Von Manstein turned back to face the junior officer.

"Kill them all and I'll clear your name of any misdoings from my reports," Von Manstein bargained with Schmidt. "You will be granted back your command on an official recommendation by me."

Numbed, Christian turned away and nudged Tatiyana next to him.

 _"Get into the Hanomag and don't come out,"_ He whispered, less of a command and more of a reqest. This was going to get very messy, very swiftly.

Tatiyana did not budge, however. She remained standing there, her hand clutching her pistol tightly. She looked like she wanted to stay and help them, like she wasn't just a translator, but a soldier as well. Bohr shook his head internally. It must have been an Eastern European thing.

"Herr Generalfeldmarschall…" Schmidt spoke uncertainly, his eyes darting back to the town. "This will not go unnoticed by the OKH. With all due respect, should I remind of the crime of fratricide?"

Manstein narrowed his eyes.

"Let me enlighten you about the OKH," he said, his voice nearly quavering with the anger he was radiating. "The OKH is perfectly fine with allowing the rest of Paulus' army to die in Stalingrad. The OKH was angered to hear that I would dare save twenty five thousand of you from that mess. The OKH will not look, nor care about a few hundred dead Latvians."

Manstein paused and allowed a ghost of a smile to show as he added, "They will, however, look for a scapegoat once Stalingrad falls and they will look at you for one."

That did it. Self-preservation was the only motivation that that Schmidt required. Knowing that there was a price to protection from one of the few Commanders the Fuhrer would not touch. The Generalleutnant watched silently as Manstein turned away from the lower general and instead wandered off and stepped back into his staff car.

Sharing looks with Oster, Hammer and Tatiyana, Christian turned back to look at Schmidt, who appeared extremely affected by Manstein's statement. He had no other choice then to do Manstein's will. With that he rounded back to his waiting troops.

 _ **"THEY'RE SOVIETS DISGUISED AS LATVIANS**_!" He screamed at the top of his lungs. _**"OPEN FIRE!"**_

With only the briefest of pauses, the Men of the Sixth Army obliged their General and went to work on the SS controlled Latvians... Like any good German soldier would do.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**


	9. January 8th, 1943

**Chapter Nine: January 8th, 1943**

…

Gathering his greatcoat and pulling it on, Joachim Hoch stepped out into the blinding cold Russian winter for the first time in nearly a year.

Here he stood on the outskirts of Rzhev, the local rallying point for the 8th SS Calvary Division _'Florian Geyer'_. It was not so much as an actual equestrian centered division, but rather, they were a combination of motorized infantry and light armour, meant to stay back in reserve and keep the partisan activity from becoming a full blown epidemic – a near impossible task these days due in large part of the dehumanization of the local populace by German authorities.

The only way to stop it now was to force the Russian people into subservience was to humiliate or destroy the Soviet government so terribly that the cancer would stop forcing them to live in fear of their return. The common citizen only fought because of the certain terrible retribution if the Reds were able to reclaim the occupied zones.

"Welcome to Russia Herr Hoch… or rather I should say welcome back."

Stepping off the last step and hitting Russian snow, Joachim turned his head up and noticed an older man approaching him, next to him, an NCO armed with an MP-40 clutched tightly against his chest.

Joachim came to attention, his arm snapping out the Party salute that was his second nature to give to anyone above him in rank… as it was expected out of him, in spite of his treachery. The gesture was returned as the superior lowered his hand and extended it out to Hoch, his expression bright.

"Heil Hitler, Brigadeführer…" spoke Hoch, trailing off as he shook the Brigadeführer's hand, he ignored his stomach dropping as the staff officer examined him.

The Brigadeführer dropped Joachim's hand, still smiling slightly. The smile did not meet his eyes.

"Heil Hitler," the Brigadeführer spoke apathetically, gesturing to the Kubelwagen that was awaiting them, a driver standing at attention. Smiling slightly, he added. "My name is Jürgen Stroop; I was requested to bring you to the 8th SS Calvary Division _'Florian Geyer'_ command by Bittrich, this way."

Although Jürgen Stroop was two, technically three ranks above him, Hoch found himself surprised at the strange display. Hoch chocked it up to a man stuck doing a necessary job, when he wanted to do something more, preferably away from the front lines. He could not exactly blame the man for feeling that way.

As the two men walked, Stroop glanced his way once again.

"Not staying?" he inquired from the younger junior officer.

Hoch shook his head.

"No, I was here on a personal call," Hoch informed Stroop, taking a seat in the car after the Brigadeführer. "I haven't seen my old commander in some time. I wanted to check in on him. Last time I saw him was back in France, just before we were deployed to Romania for the attack on Yugoslavia."

Smiling slightly, Stroop nodded his head, offering the junior rank a cigarette. Hoch obliged his host as the car started moving and the Brigadeführer lit his cigarette for him. He leaned back and watched as they passed by a column of trucks and troops reorganizing for another attack or defensive attack. Silence fell as only the sound of the car engine and distant blasts from what sounded like the 15 cm K38 heavy artillery starting a renewed barrage.

Jesus, how did he know that? This war and it's littlest of details was all he was going to have at the end of the conflict.

"As I understand it, you're close to the big three, then, am I correct?"

Joachim casted a look to Stroop, who continued to look out of the window of the car as the car passed by captured Russians armoured cars, sentries and dogs. Stroop removed his cap, still handsome looking for middle aged. Hoch squinted and turned away from the Brigadeführer as he too looked out the window.

"Big three?" Hoch repeated.

"Himmler, Heydrich and Kaltenbrunner, of course," Stroop decided to humour the younger man, looking close to grin at the lack of understanding. Inhaling his cigarette, he added. "For an Obersturmbannführer, you have most curiously fostered a reputation around the SS command circles. They call you unusually ambitious, which really is no surprise… You are possibly the youngest man in the history of the SS to hold your rank. Did you know that? You are… what… twenty-four, nearly twenty-five? At least the youngest I am aware of. The dedication you hold to the organization must be astoundingly high."

Hoch blinked as Stroop chuckled as he ignored the guilt festering in him. He was the youngest to attend this sort of rank? He really hadn't had the time to call his old classmates back in officer training to get a heads up. He doubted most of them were alive, even.

"I would not know what you are talking about," mumbled Hoch, staring into his lap intently, ignoring a hand slapped against his back and a low chuckle emitted from Stroop.

"Of course you do, modesty doesn't suit you, be proud of it," Stroop retorted, cutting through Hoch's low tone. "They whisper your name back in the SS villa's and Wewelsburg… they say that you and your Standartenführer are in charge of special projects. Devising new ways to destroy the Soviets and the West..."

Joachim ignored that last remark. Whatever Stroop was saying, sounded as though he already knew. He had enough difficulties keeping the quarians secret while he spent his spare time collaborating against his cause. He did not reply, knowing that the Brigadeführer was a high enough rank to ask the question out loud, but not high enough to receive an answer from Hoch. No, he would do as he always did. Kept his mouth shut.

Sighing, clearly bothered with not getting his answer, Stroop pulled his hand off Hoch's back and turned to look out the window once again.

"You know... I do not normally engage in rumour mongering, but I am curious. Are you aware that your Standartenführer has effectively destroyed your career from further advancement?" Stroop spoke idly, ignoring the snapping of Joachim's head back to him. "He held back your promotion to Obersturmbannführer, revealed your secrets when command was thinking of a new promotion for the work you have been putting in; a promotion that would put you on equal standing with him after all those many loyal years of being an apprentice to him. I suppose he must have seen you as a threat to him. Not a particularly bright one if he could trick you into marching across France on his behalf."

Stroop's laughter caused Joachim to lower the cigarette from his mouth and simply sat there, numbed at what Stroop was saying, what Stroop was implying. No, that was impossible. He was in Russia; it was hard to get a promotion out to him there. He marched across France on his own accord; he wanted to spare Langer and his family the heartbreak of potentially losing a Father, a husband. It didn't make sense. It just didn't make sense.

Yet… a small part of him did acknowledge Stroop's implications. The parts of his mind that reminded him that Langer had hid the past, then sold him out.

"He wouldn't do that," he breathed, shaking his head. "That's impossible."

Stroop didn't reply at first, his laughter dying away as he sat there smoking.

"Yes, that is something he would want you to believe, isn't it?" the Brigadeführer remarked, visibly amused now. "That you matter that much to him… have you really believed that he is family to you? Setting the lure with family dinners and time with _his_ family? Twisting the knife in your back all the more easier to do, because it makes it less likely you'll retaliate when you're thrown under the tracks just when you needed him the most."

Snorting as he rolled down the window and tossed the last bit of his cigarette out, Stroop leaned back comfortably into his seat and turned to look into the shocked, younger soldier's expression.

"You… _children_ are all the same," Stroop pressed on, his eyes never blinking, never leaving Joachim's as he smiled almost sympathetically. "You... just like Peiper, Meyer, Eichmann and other young SS men who were children from unstable homes, giving a mentor, enough power to satisfy you, and suddenly... as loyal as a dog to a handler. No independent thought process… just what is imprinted upon you by your masters."

Smirking slightly, Stroop crossed his leg over his knee.

"It's admirable and yet, it is remarkably pathetic at the same time," he said, still with that simpering sympathy for the frozen Joachim. "So, I am going to ask this question again, and look into my eyes, _boy_. _Why are you visiting Wilhelm Bittrich_?"

Joachim locked eyes with Stroop. Burying his fears and rage, he forced himself to remain as neutral as he could possibly be.

"He was my old division commander, Herr Brigadeführer..." Joachim dully repeated for the Brigadeführer's benefit, his words becoming unnaturally formal. "…and you weren't sent by Bittrich, were you?"

Stroop could only smile at the reaction.

"No, no I was not; but you mustn't fret. I am taking you to him, I would be a fool not to," he reassured Joachim with a pat on his knee. but yes you are right. Kaltenbrunner made a request I could not refuse. Normally I would not say anything, but Kaltenbrunner explicitly told me to tell you that he's keeping his eyes on you. He knows you're also here to pick up a couple of Heer soldiers as well. Kaltenbrunner isn't nearly as theatrical as Himmler and Heydrich. He's a policeman, he gathers his evidence, he frightens his suspects into confession and since your time in his protective custody, you are now his suspect. The only reason he doesn't act is that accusing our kind of treachery openly without hard evidence is a serious offense. So watch yourself, boy."

The car came to a stop outside of Bittrich's headquarters. Stroop leaned over and opened the door for Hoch, who clambered out of the car quickly.

"Give Kaltenbrunner my best," He muttered as he turned back to the older man.

Stroop merely smiled kindly and nodded before closing the door and tapped the driver on the shoulder. Hoch stood there, watching the car drove off, out of the courtyard and back towards the direction they came from.

The moment Stroop's Kubelwagen was no longer in his vision, Joachim gasped sharply, finally free to breathe again. It took all his urge not to get sick as his nerves got the best of him.

He had to do something about this quickly.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

"My driver did not find you. I expected you here sooner."

Stepping into the offices of Wilhelm Bittrich, Joachim Hoch watched the Brigadeführer step past him and collapsed behind his desk, his hand rubbing his forehead as though he was suffering from a perpetual headache.

Wilhelm Bittrich, for man no more than twenty years older than Joachim was, he appeared considerably older than Jürgen Stroop, yet Bittrich was only a year older than he. He was bald, underweight, his greatcoat giving him more weight than he actually had on him. Though he might have been bias, Joachim thought of him as the aspiration for every Waffen-SS staff ought to be: loyal, but not afraid to speak when command acted stupidly.

"I was picked up by Jürgen Stroop. Nothing to worry about, other than political garbage, Herr Brigadeführer," Hoch replied, trying to remain steady in the face of his growing fears.

Smirking at his former subordinate's situation, he opened his desk, and showed Hoch a crystal glass and a bottle of vodka. Joachim nodded as he took a seat as Bittrich requested he join him. Yes, he called a superior in the Waffen-SS _Herr_. Yes, he was a hypocrite, but in the early days of the war, Joachim was Bittrich's Fuhrmann, wanting to impress much more influential man then him.

"Wilhelm will be fine," Bittrich assured the Obersturmbannführer, who wasn't sure he could call Bittrich by his first name. "How have you been? It has been quite some time since you were under my command. I have to admit… you look worse for wear."

Knowing he could not very well show the Brigadeführer his new arm, tell him why his face was disfigured, or that he was being investigated by Ernst Kaltenbrunner for a crime he did not volunteer to do. Hoch instead merely smiled and accepted his first drink, the two of them clinking their glasses together in a toast for the future of Germany, both of them having very different visions of Germany in the near future.

"Well enough, all things considered," Hoch said as he sipped and set his glass down. "These are hard days for all of us. No one is to be spared from this war, and it looks like it will only get worse from here."

Bittrich chuckled at his old junior officer's observation. With his guard somewhat down now, Hoch decided to press his luck.

"I wish I came here with just old times in mind, Herr Brigadeführer," he spoke out loud to the suddenly curious looking Bittrich. But, I would like to ask about something that I just found out. Something I think you might know something about… the… special activities we have been asked to do…"

The expression on Bittrich's face vanished as he simply stared inquisitively at the younger man. He understood the slang; he understood the reasons behind the question. He lowered his eyes and focused on his drink as he thought about it.

"Yes… yes I have heard rumours of these actions being commited in secured sectors behind the line. Why do you think I pushed the division so hard?" Bittrich mused, his mouth quirked curiously. "Doing those sorts of _activities_ would stain everything we worked for, whether or not we win or lose. I tried to fight clean as war can be waged out here… but it is getting increasingly difficult not to… submit to certain leadership directives sent down the chain to me."

There was an expression of nostalgia on his face. As though they had been the good old days, back when the war had been simple back then.

"It was so much easier in a front line unit. Not so now," Bittrich murmured mutinously. "Florian Geyer was specifically assigned reserve duties for a reason. The eastern volksdeutsche are much more inclining to commit to these sorts of... _extracurricular activity_. Even if I stop it, my hands are blood soaked now. I am just a figurehead to this division. This division report directly to the RSHA."

Bittrich curled his lips in an expression of disgust at the situation he was now ensnared in. Quietly Hoch wondered if it was sincere. As much as he loathed to admit it, he still very much believed in policy towards the untermenschen. He may have found the idea of a wholesale extermination program a disturbing turn of events, but the physical removal of the undesirables out of their lands was a worthy goal

"It's all the Allgemeine-SS's fault. Pencil pushing, cowards who would not dare do this work themselves," Bittrich continued, forcing Joachim to look up. "They have taken their blood supremacy too far. Yes, there is no doubt that a German is superior to a Russian, but that superiority is not in our blood, but rather fighting spirit, our intellectual superiority over the Russian who would let themselves become slaves to a system that privately hates them. Abusing these helpless beast men is no better then what the Jewish-Bolshevist has done to them for twenty years. They deserve not our scorn, but instead our pity. Our liberation of their lands is our burden for resorting to send Lenin to Tsarist Russia in the last war"

Rubbing his bald head, he used his other hand to pour the two of them another drink.

"These…men – if I can call them that - like those windbags Himmler and Heydrich; they shifted all the problems Germany was plagued with to a vast Jewish conspiracy that was based upon what the Führer had written," Bittrich muttered, his words bitter. "It's a conspiracy that has shown no sign of its existence beyond the ranting and ravings of that weasel, crippled Propaganda Minister. The Jews of Germany are gone because of their paranoia, so are the rest of the civilized Jews of Europe."

Bittrich downed his drink and poured himself a new one.

"Believe me, I wish there was a conspiracy against us. It would justify all of this…" the SS man said, looking back up to Joachim. "but the Jew is nowhere near as clever as they claimed. They aren't crafty or wealthy. The only thing that separates them from the Slav is their faith. Now here we are… all of us culpable in the crimes we are committing against this criminally submissive race."

Joachim wasn't going to accept that, no matter is a party of him felt it was true.

"I had _nothing_ to do with it," Joachim furiously denied. "I put no pistol to the head of the Jew. They put themselves in this situation. They had almost a decade to run, take what little material wealth they could carry and leave. They are a race of sheep, and I have seen it. What kind of people could allow a thousand of their own people to be deported or killed by ten men armed with submachine guns. They won't even fight for their children. I saw Jews working against their own kind so that they were the last to be deported. How can any people be so self-serving? It's despicable. Almost as monstrous as what the Allgemeine-SS are doing!"

Taking an unsteady breath, Joachim exhaled his cigarette; he was sickened as he thought about what he witnessed in Poland.

"I have no sympathy for them whatsoever… but I didn't do it. This is _not_ my responsibly," he growled as he stubbed his cigarette out. "I fight men who fight back. I haven't turned my gun or ordered my men to attack men who haven't deserved it."

Bittrich merely laced his fingers together.

"That's noble, but it does not matter whether or not you had anything to do with it. In the end, the Jew will not be destroyed, no matter how hard these few men push," Bittrich retorted Joachim's denial of responsibility. "The Jew will become radicalized, driven by Zionism, damaged national identity and contempt for the Gentiles who did this to them, contempt for the collaborators, who sold them out and contempt for those that simply stood around and did nothing. Having a psychological scarred nation will present problems in the future…"

The two men drank in silence, leaving Joachim staring off at the desk in front of him.

"But… we have gone this far... and…a small part of me hopes that Heydrich and Himmler go all the way and get the job _done_ ," Joachim confessed, unable to believe he was admitting such things aloud. "It might be better that way... having no witnesses. Do it now while the world thinks the Jews are over-exaggerating like the British and Belgians did in the first war..."

Joachim wearily sighed. He tried to be compassionate to a Jew, once upon a time. His compassion left him with a bullet through his face. Exhaling more smoke, he glanced back up to Bittrich. He could believe he was doing this.

"Wilhelm, what If things were to change? What if something was going to be done about this matter?" Hoch spoke delicately to his former commander, who stared at him curiously. "What if I was to say the paranoid ramblings of the higher echelon of the SS were correct and something was being organized to stop all of this madness from getting worse than it already is…"

There was a strange combination flash of anger and resignation in Bittrich's expression. Hoch could empathize. It was the exact same anger he held in his heart for the quarians who would lead him down this path without giving him even the illusion of a choice. Well, Hoch was going to going to go about this the right way. Bittrich had earned the right to have that. So silently, he sat there in front of the staff officer, awaiting his judgement.

Slowly, Bittrich leaned back into his seat and continued to stare at Joachim, his eyes narrowed.

"The oath you took to the Führer about serving him until his death rings true too every man in the organization," Bittrich spoke slowly, deliberately. "The Waffen-SS stand behind the Führer and through him, the Party until his death. If something were to happen to him… I believe that Hausser, Dietrich and I could end our obligation to the Party, with that, the division's we command. It would show who is in the Wehrmacht and the SS are loyal to Germany, and who is simply loyal to the cause."

Suppressing the urge to spill anymore of what he knew, he simply nodded. While Bittrich appeared to have been able to condone it, he would not support it. Deciding that this had gone on long enough, Hoch decided it was time to change the subject to something lighter, the thoughts of betrayal swimming in the back of both men's minds.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

 _ **"HOW COULD YOU DO THIS? RISK EVERYTHING WE HAVE WORKED SO HARD ON SOME RUSSIAN SHANTY TOWN?"**_

Halid'Zorah winced at the reaction. For a man in his seventies and usually snarky rather than boisterous, Gerd von Rundstedt could shout up a storm.

His target today was Erich von Manstein. He stood there amongst his fellow holographic projections of Heinz Guderian and Erwin Rommel. Manstein appeared amused by the reaction, as though he had done no wrong. Well, in the long run he hadn't, but now? He had waged a surprise war on an entire contingent of SS volunteers from collaborationist Latvia while using the 6th Army as his trigger men. It was messy, OKH appeared to have not noticed it and accepted Manstein's logic, but that did not mean he would get away with it just yet. He needed to get the 6th Army into the conspiracy on a quickened pace.

 _"I have no explanation to give other then it was well deserved,"_ Von Manstein replied. " _If you saw what they did to Azov, you would understand. Every town and city we burn, it hampers our relationship with the locals. It drives more people into the arms of the partisans."_

Gerd von Rundstedt blinked at the statement.

"You killed eight hundred men of the Latvian Legion and you have the gale to sit there and pretend that what you did was helpful in any possible way," Gerd said, unable to comprehend the lack of reason behind his actions.

Erich could only offer a thin, unamused smile.

"This may come as an interest to the two of you, Rommel, Guderian," Manstein readdressed, turning to Rommel and Guderian, who was now recalled back into the desert, about to assume the western command for Rommel while Rommel focused on building a defence against the east, just in case Montgomery attacked.

"The LVF have been recalled to Vichy France," The Generalfeldmarschall continued, now having both of the desert commander's full attention. "They left on the 1st of January; they will be heading across the sea to Algeria. A French fascist unit in Vichy territory and you can't stop it. It appears the SS have taken a keen interest in your front since you allowed the Leibstandarte to operate there."

Rommel's projection rubbed his mouth thoughtfully as he held his eyes downcast, clearly in a state of deep thought. He did not seem bothered by the prospect, if anything, he appeared pleased.

 _"That is interesting,"_ Rommel murmured softly, looking up finally. _"Eastern front battle tested men, placed in the ranks of the Vichy army would result in making sure the regular forces do not surrender the moment the Americans and the British make their landings… It would buy us time to mobilize what I can spare to face the western push."_

Halid watched Rommel's reaction very carefully. He did not seem impressed to have heard that his front was going to be taking on more members of the political army. If anything, Rommel did not seem to have realized what he was doing. He was isolating more SS units away from a potential counterattack against the infant rebellion.

Next to Halid, Von Rundstedt appeared ready to speak. No longer furious with Manstein's rash actions, he instead turned to face Rommel, who, by comparison, looked like a saint at the moment.

"The Führer has authorized sending the majority of the Dansk occupation force down to you for additional support," he grumbled, still clearly annoyed by this. "They are only there on a temporary basis, however. You have them for a month or so before they are sent back into Germany to help keep the peace when the plans are enacted. What are your intentions with the Leibstandarte?"

 _"Keeping them in the east, guarding the Suez,"_ Rommel responded. " _Admiral Falan's intelligence reports are suggesting the South Africans, Australians and New Zealanders are steaming up the Red Sea approach but are deploying at Sharm El-Sheihk. How the English convinced their dominion pawns to part with more troops after I captured the 8th Army is beyond my comprehension... I'm not sure if it's admirable or blind loyalty..."_

Zorah's omni-tool blinked, a message coming in. Reading the sender's name, Zorah frowned and stepped out of the projectors range, his arm raised as he tapped the written message to life.

 _-Zorah_

 _Kaltenbrunner is stalking me. Tapped my phones Austria, knows that I'm out here talking to Wilhelm Bittrich on Rommel's request. It might be time to do that thing we discussed. I'm heading to Rostov right now to fulfill a personal request. The moment I land in Germany, I'm going to be tailed._

 _-Hoch_

Unable to believe this was happening, Halid closed the message and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He glanced over to Gerd who watching his reaction closely. Taking a resigned sigh, Halid stepped forward as the conversation continued between the Heer men. Zorah cleared his throat, catching Manstein, Rommel and Guderian's attention.

"I will call an end to this for now. Before you leave, our plans are coming to coming together now faster than I thought, but no matter," Zorah informed his co-conspirators. "I will be sending down a special forces team to pick up and deliver Ernst Kaltenbrunner to me. He is starting to make inquiries to our SS assets. That cannot be allowed to happen, and his cooperation will be a necessary evil."

All of them aware of how serious this was, kidnapping the acting head of the RSHA, each of them simply nodded solemnly. One by one, their transmissions ended, leaving Gerd and Halid alone once more. Von Rundstedt turned away, shaking his head. He did not like this plan and he was still angered over Von Manstein and his actions.

 _"I cannot believe he did that,"_ The old soldier tried to keep calm. "I expected Rommel to have already wiped out the Leibstandarte by now after he killed Eichmann. The fact that Rommel has more restraint then Erich is troubling me to no end; Manstein is a Prussian, born and educated as such. He should have known better."

Zorah attempted the only route that could work: Reason.

"Rommel isn't witnessing what Von Manstein is witnessing. Rommel isn't spending his days trying to fight clean in a war that was dirty the moment it begun. The things being done under Erich's nose… any reasonable man would have snapped," Zorah carefully replied to the angered Generalfeldmarschall. "You cannot deny that your collaborationist nations seem to think that if they show barbarism in order to win approval, nor can't you deny that this rebellion will not be bloody."

Watching the Generalfeldmarschall take his nitroglycerin medication, he seemed to understand where Zorah was coming from at long last. His anger was cooled down by the time Von Rundstedt had finished his glass of water.

"Besides, Manstein's act has some pretty clear and very interesting political manoeuvrings," Zorah added as he gathered his things. "He's setting himself up as the man on the Eastern front who took a stand against the Nazi's. A man who would protect his enemies… The west will eat it up."

Halid paused, his mouth clenched.

"We need to discuss the Luftwaffe question."

Rundstedt said a rather rude phrase that Zorah decided to ignore.

"Well that discussion will be a short one, then. I don't trust the Luftwaffe and neither does any man in the Heer of Kriegsmarine, whether they are a member of our conspiracy or not," Rundstedt dismissed as he took a seat to rub his balding head. "They have been much too infiltrated by radicals. Even if there are good Luftwaffe men, they are simply not in a position to do a thing about it. Usurping Goering is going to take more than a punch to his face, as amusing as it might have been."

Zorah sighed; he had wished he had made more progression into the Luftwaffe. He had spent so much time on the Heer because they served as bulk of the Wehrmacht. He spent time convincing Raeder that he could retain his position if he kept the U-Boats out at sea and surface raiders hunting in packs. The Luftwaffe was much more dangerous territory to encroach. Nothing got past Goering. Rommel had made a few inquiries into one Albert Kesselring, but to no avail. He was sympathetic, but Goering was much too dangerous to double cross despite his comical appearance. If Kesselring was to do anything, it would have to be after Goering had been arrested or, preferably, killed.

But that in itself presented its own challenges. Many of the upper echelon of the Luftwaffe would stay loyal. As much as he wanted to use the bitterness of the Luftwaffe commanders who sent entire flights to their deaths over the killing grounds of Great Britain, the organization was simply too corrupted by being the only military service that the Nazis had built from the ground up.

"Do you recall Captain Yagar'Haevjar vas Compassionate Action?" Halid reminded the older man of his trip to Earth's moon. "He has built six hundred ME-262'S so far with another two hundred on the assembly line. If you do not trust the Luftwaffe, I don't see how we can give you them and you need air cover, especially if the Luftwaffe comes down on the side of the SS."

Gerd von Rundstedt shuttered at the mere mention of his journey to a place where only one other human had gone before.

"Load them up with quarian pilots," Was Gerd's grumbling response to the matter, his words offhandedly thrown at the Admiral.

Halid blinked at the remark offered by the unassuming Generalfeldmarschall. Quarian pilots that were supporting the rebellion, this… this would be a hard sell to make to the rest of the Admiralty. He wanted to keep the actions of the rebellion democratic and all without vetoing objection. Though military action had to be a unanimous decision, this would have to be a volunteer effort. Not official military action. For now it could wait, one thing at a time. He had to head back to the fleet and coordinate the abduction of Ernst Kaltenbrunner, before the man harassed Joachim's fragile stoicism into confession.

"I'm going to go back to the fleet," Halid returned to the Prussian who was staring at him. "I'll have to check into that… quarian pilots getting actual combat hours would be nice."

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

Christian Bohr wasn't sure how it started, but it did.

Perhaps it had been the tension building since Mann was evacuation. Perhaps it had been the random moments of rage that irritated the Feldwebel to no end. Perhaps it had been the comments about Erich, or calling Tatiyana something along the lines of Slavic scum, bitch or whore, or any variation he saw fit. Whatever it was, something was said by him that made the Unteroffizier lose all his self-control and attacked Bohr.

Fists smashing into his forehead, the screams coming from Tatiyana as she and Oster tried to drag the two men sprawled on the ground fighting. It was a short, violent burst of conflict that ended the moment heavy boots thumped across the creaking wooden floors of the barracks. Tatiyana let go as her eyes turned away from Christian.

"Oh… shit…" the two fighting men heard Oster cry out weakly.

The fists stopped flying, as did any other struggle between the two men. Bohr looked up and found a giant standing over him, taller than he had expected, donning the uniform of a high ranking Waffen-SS officer. Scrambling out of Hammer's grip, Bohr stood, trying unsuccessfully to look as though he was back in control of the situation.

The man, easily a head taller did not appear impressed by Bohr's display. He stood there impressively, dusting snow from off his shoulders as he cocked his brow at the embarrassing sight. The man's expression, which made the bullet pockmark scar on his face contort, was a look of repressed rage and embarrassment. Even from the distance the SS man stood, he could hear the man breathing rapidly through his nostrils. The hot air gave the impression of smoke billowing out of a pit a man who wanted nothing more than to explode on all of them.

"Which one of you is Kurt Hammer," the staring officer inquired impetuously.

Wiping the blood off his mouth, Bohr gestured to Hammer.

He should not have done that.

It was only a flash of a second before the giant stamped forward, his hand wrapping tightly around the collar of Hammer's jacket and dragged him away from his squad with little effort at all. The SS man ignored the protesting roars from Hammer as he dragged him across the room and straight into the lavatory. His foot closed the door to the bathroom, leaving Bohr Tatiyana and Oster in silence.

Screams coming from Hammer broke the silence as the sound of fists hitting flesh made Tatiyana jump next to him. The sound lasted for a minute or two and then the screams subsided into moans as the door opened again and out stepped the Waffen-SS officer, his gloved hands coated in blood as he dragged out Hammer again. Hammer nose was shattered, his face beaten to a mash. The man unceremoniously shoved Hammer to the ground, just under Bohr's feet.

Oster and Bohr came to attention. They did not have to as they were of different services, but the cold glare in the taller man's eyes made them both not want to cross him.

"As it turned out, your Leutnant, Helmut Mann has spent his whole time in Munich looking for a way to get you home," the giant growled at the three of them, plus Tatiyana "My name is Joachim Hoch, I'm taking you all home because I have grown tired of listen to him bitch about his men."

Bohr blinked. This was him? _Joachim Hoch_? The classmate Helmut Mann had mentioned? He stood there, stern faced as his dark blue eyes. Gone was the boyish charm Mann had describe him as, he was simply terrifying now.

"I see your stray is here," The Obersturmbannführer spoke, turning away from the woman. "Now where is Erich Fuhrmann? I was told he would be with you."

Oster and Bohr glanced at one another.

"He's… He's dead, Herr Obersturmbannführer," Bohr spoke extremely carefully as the officer stepped closer. "He died on New Year's Eve."

What little colour in Hoch's face vanished before Bohr's eyes. For a moment, a brief moment, he actually appeared devastated. Like Fuhrmann was essential to something important. The Obersturmbannführer turned away, his hand running through his hair as he pulled off his visor cap. He exhaled slowly, his hand falling off his head and looking for his cigarettes.

"Cut off from us… he got caught… blew his brains out," Hammer corrected for Bohr, his head bowed as he clutched his mashed up face, shattered by the Waffen-SS man hovering over him.

Though, Hammer winced, expecting another blow to the head from Hoch, it simply did not come. A flash of something crossed his expression; it looked like regret, regret or something along the lines of guilt. Whatever was wrong with the man, he didn't say, he simply nodded instead, accepting the news of Fuhrmann's fate.

"That's... _unfortunate_..." was all Hoch had to say on the matter.

Exhaling, Hoch turned away and stepped towards the door. As he reached it, he paused and turned back to the men and woman watching him.

"Come along, then. I'm not staying in Russia any longer than I have to," Pausing, he glanced to back to Bohr, his eyes flickering to Tatiyana briefly before adding. "Grab your stray; she had better learn to clean herself up when we get there."

Grabbing Hammer's shoulder and followed by the silent Oster, Hoch left, leaving Tatiyana and Christian alone in the now empty building. Tatiyana stepped forward, in her hand a piece of cloth in her hand that was suddenly dabbed against his bleeding lip.

"I'm sorry…" she mumbled.

Christian looked down at her. Her express was that of a woman who had a secret on the tip of her tongue. She seemed both rather pleased and rather regretful.

"He only attacked you …I called him incest product," Tatiyana admitted as she grabbed his hand and dragged him after the SS man and his squad mates. "he was going to hit me... you got in the way."

Christian could only moan in annoyance as the woman roughly laughed.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

 _"Two targets… close proximity… one female, unconfirmed, one male, confirmed to be the target. We are awaiting your orders."_

 _"Take the shot when he reaches the car. It would be preferable you did not have to bring in his Mistress as well,"_ A voice returned the deliberate in nature. _"I know you have read the file on him, so again I'm going to remind you that this is not an assassination. He comes in alive."_

The spotter glanced to the shooter. They both turned back to the house. Yes, they had moist certainly read the file on this man. He was the sort of man the shooter was quite willing to get reprimanded for, for shooting the target despite orders. The only reason the shooter wouldn't do it was because how much his superiors stressed that this man, out of the whole of the rotten regime they were supporting and working against could bring about a peaceful resolution to the end of Nazism.

A light came from the doorway as the heavy door opened. Out stumbled the human known as Ernst Kaltenbrunner, swaying heavily, clearly intoxicated as he slammed the door shut behind him and stumbled down the long, winding pathway towards his vehicle. Both the shooter and the spotter had agreed that the best course of action was an assault. Hit him with enough sedatives then keep him quiet until the drugs took over. They'd take his car and drive him to a secluded area for a transport back to where ever the Admiralty wanted to talk to him.

 _"Take him now!"_ the commlink ordered.

With that, the black ops sniper team stood up from their place on the hill side and moved swiftly through the night, thermal vision on as they bolted down the hill towards the human now in front of the car, his back turned. The shooter raised his rifle, now forty metres away. They could feel the eyes of Admirals Zorah and Jarva on them from orbit, both of them hoping that the operation did not fail.

Well it didn't. Now twenty metres away, the intoxicated human turned and before he knew it, his chest was suddenly penetrated by three bolts, two tranquilizers, the other a muscle paralyzer.

A growl escaped the human, like a wild beast that hadn't realized what was happening to him until it was too late.

The drunken man did not fall right away. Instead, he turned and charged at the two of them. The shooter widened his eyes as he realized how much taller he was compared to them. Pushing past the apprehension, the two quarians ducked his attack and went for the giant's legs, dropping the man and pinning him down as he furiously struggled, his fists swinging up to punch the spotter's helmet so hard that the faceplate cracked, Human blood staining the spotter's mask.

Forcing his forearm into Kaltenbrunner's mouth, the shooter held it there, furiously working to turn off the nerve stimulator shoot pain through his arm from the gnawing of the human's teeth. The darts were working, but then again, not to the effectiveness they needed. How was still struggling against the inevitable? That should have put down an overgrown turian!

A flash of white pain shot through the shooter's face. His mask was shattered as Kaltenbrunner reared his head back and slammed it at his mask with three quick, devastating blows. There was no sense of self-preservation in the human. He ignored the trauma he inflicted on himself as he cracked through protective glass.

Panicked by the exposure and to the violent reaction from the human, whose face was now coated in blood from the gashes and glass stuck in his face, the shooter recoiled. It was enough for Kaltenbrunner to get enough leverage as he wretched the arm out of his mouth for only a moment.

Forcing her forearm back into Kaltenbrunner's mouth, the shooter turned back to the struggling spotter.

"Shoot another tranquilizer into him!" he called to his partner.

The spotter obliged, his hand reaching for his holstered dart pistol, he fired yet another round into Kaltenbrunner's leg. Before he realized it, the spotter was thrown off the bucking human

"Damn it, this guy isn't going down!" the shooter called to his partner. "T-take my place and stun him!"

The spotter nodded and climbed onto the human's chest, her knees digging in to him. It gave the shooter a moment to stand up; injecting antibiotics into himself with shaky hands he ignored the wringing as electricity shot through Kaltenbrunner by the shock of the Spotter's omni-tool. Dragging his hands along the human's body, he fumbled to grab the pistol and threw it into the car before turning back.

"He's-He's disarmed," the shooter called out. "L-et's get out him out of here-"

The spotter, as close to Kaltenbrunner's face she could be as she tried to keep him from breathing too much. The Shooter could see the drugs were starting to take their hold. That was when it happened. In his state of fear, the shooter had not been able to focus on the check. As a result, in one final effort, Kaltenbrunner sprung up from underneath the woman. In his hand gripped a dagger that the Shooter hadn't spotted. The blade swung in quick succession's under the Spotter's neck piece until the blade tore through the material and went through the bottom of her, jaw, through the roof of her mouth, right into the bottom of her brain.

" _Kala no_!" the shooter screamed out her name as she fell off Kaltenbrunner, her body twitching as she struggled to scream and breath as the blood drained out of her brain and pooled into her mouth, inside of her still mostly intact faceplate. Her hands reached to grasp the base of the dagger as she continued to silently scream and plead for help.

Forgetting Kaltenbrunner, forgetting his own status, he rushed to her side to help her. Some way… somehow…

"No…" he sobbed as he tried to grip the entry wound, as though it would stop her from dying. "No, no, no, no… hang in.. you have to live Kala… please… Don't do this to me…"

His delusions slowly broke as he held his partner in his arms. It was too late… much too late to do anything for her. Her body still twitching, she went limp.

Kala was gone.

Kala was gone… leaving him by himself with Kaltenbrunner, whose weak chuckle sounded like taunting laughter. The chuckle turned into a full blown delusional laughter.

Turning back to face the bastard, he found Kaltenbrunner was struggling to stand up even as his limbs were no longer working for him. The paralyzers had kicked in before the tranquilizers, leaving the giant somewhat aloof. Rage swelling inside of him, the sniper turned back and smashed the stock of his rifle into his back, dropping the human once and for all. Even as he fell, the man hit the bastard again and again.

Tears streaming down his eyes for his partner, the shooter slumped over and cradled the small woman in his arms. Numb, ignoring the illness growing inside of him, he pulled his wife out of the snow and carefully laid her in the back seat of Kaltenbrunner's car. He paused only briefly, his mind numb from the exposure now. He glanced to the front passenger seat and, pushing his sobbing aside, he reached for Kaltenbrunner's pistol.

 _ **"Don't you dare do it, soldier!"**_ he heard Zorah shout over the radio. " _ **He deserved it, but comes in alive!"**_

" **LET ME KILL HIM. LET ME KILL HIM,** _ **DAMMIT!"**_ he screamed back at the Admiral.

Remembering that the Admirals had been watching, very reluctantly he relented against his mind telling him to execute the human, whom, had the Shooter been in his position, would have done the exact same thing. Instead he dropped the pistol down. The shooter closed the back door and slumped against the side of the vehicle. His eyes staring at the bloodied Kaltenbrunner laying there, his head turned to him, his eyes still open. They were blank as he stared. His mouth was twisted up in rictus grin, as though at this point it appeared more a reaction to muscle control loss.

 _"I'm sorry that this had to happen,"_ The commlink spoke, catching the Sniper's groggy attention. _"This should have been an easy grab... but you have to get him now," a_ pause occurred, and then the voice on the line gently added. _"If you don't... then Kala died for nothing. We can't let that happen."_

Shutting off the link to command, the shooter stood up and wandered over to Kala's murderer. He stood over Ernst Kaltenbrunner, the pistol aiming between the man's eyes. He watched, tears streaming down his face as the human somehow lifted his head a few centimetres higher. There was no expression of fear in the face of the head of the RSHA. He seemed as if to welcome it.

" _Do it… coward,"_ Kaltenbrunner slurred.

He couldn't.

As much as he wanted to… he couldn't make the loss of his partner be for nothing. Something had to come from all of this.

The shooter lowered the human weapon, and silently he tossed the weapon into the car. His hands reached out and grabbed Kaltenbrunner's forearms, dragging him towards the car for exfiltration.

He hated himself for this more than he hated the human.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

 **Changes: General clean up. You know you would think that in the years which I had posted this chapter, someone would have noticed that the chapter date wrong and that Hoch traveled back to 1942. hahaha... I was about to make the exact same mistake again.**

 **Nothing says Remembrance Day quite like a chapter about disillusioned National Socialists blaming their victims for not fighting back.**

 **I'll see about releasing a couple more today. Hoping to get this one out of the way.**


	10. January 9th, 1943

**Chapter Ten: January 9th, 1943**

 **...**

A hand on his shoulder woke Otto Skorzeny from his slumber.

Rolling his head over and realizing that Waltraut was still curled up on him, like an overgrown feline, he turned his head over and found his wife, Emmi hovering over him, her expression one of great concern. Otto rubbed his eyes and sat up only slightly, shuffling over to allow Emmi to sit, which she did.

"Frau Kaltenbrunner is in the kitchen," Emmi murmured, her hand grazing through Waltraut's hair. "She's in such a state; all she wants is to speak to you..."

Skorzeny arched his brow at the unexpected guest. Why was it that Ernst's wife was here at this time in the morning?

Rubbing the sleep from out of his eyes, he carefully extricated himself from out of his daughter's grip and pulled himself off the couch, all the while making sure the girl did not wake from her slumber.

Successful in leaving his child unperturbed, he stood up, pulling his suspender straps back over his shoulders and pulling on his boots. He headed to the atrium of the house where the woman was left by Emmi. Emmi herself was only a few feet behind him.

Otto frowned slightly as he found Elisabeth standing there, turned away. Clearing his throat, she shifted back to face him, her dark eyes focused on to his. They were red and stained with tears. From what he could see in her movement towards him, there were no signs of abuse, Ernst was a heavy drinker but he had never heard of him taking it out on her physically. No, he did it by fucking his mistress.

Elisabeth's hands clutched his forearms. He could feel her shaking. Not sure if he wanted to physically comfort her, he simply held her at bay, his head tilting slightly as he worked up the best look of sympathy he could possibly offer her.

"Frau Kaltenbrunner…" he spoke softly for the woman. " _Elisabeth_ , are you okay?"

Still shaking nervously, Elisabeth shook her head and before Skorzeny could react, the wife of the acting head of the RSHA had wrapped her arms around him and pulled the Reich's greatest commando into a bone crunching hug. Otto glanced behind him and found Emmi standing there, confused at what she was seeing and the sobs that had suddenly escaped the woman.

"Otto... Ernst didn't come home last night. He said that he would be home by midnight or later, but he just simply did not," the woman spoke in between her tears. "I-I... I didn't know who to go to about this. He's got this new job and after what happened to Reinhard Heydrich… I didn't want to get him in trouble."

Otto remained silent. That was it? He didn't show up when he said he would? Sure, Kaltenbrunner was a very punctual man, but Ernst also enjoyed the drink and loved to fuck his countess Mistress. He was probably staying with the Countess while he slept off the hangover.

Of course, being friends with Ernst meant that he wasn't going to say that to his wife. He would play along with her fears, if only to keep up Kaltenbrunner's image of loyalty to this rather unattractive woman now hanging off him.

Carefully, Skorzeny pulled out of her grasp, his hands clutching her thin biceps as he offered her the best smile he could produce for her without it contorting his mensur scar and making his expression come off as a sneer.

"You came to the right place..." Skorzeny reassured the quivering woman, who stared up at him with wide, searching eyes. "Listen, I'm going to get dressed and have a look around. Do not worry about Ernst, I'm going to go find him, I _promise_ I'll find him."

Watching Elisabeth nod her head, Skorzeny turned his eyes back and nodded to Emmi, who stepped forward to join her husband's side. She wasn't particularly friendly to Kaltenbrunner's wife, but, like a good Austrian wife, she took an interest in her husband's responsibilities; If Otto's responsibility was to Ernst and his family, whether through work or personal friendship, then she would do the same.

"Why don't you go home, gather the children and spend the day with Emmi, an Waltraut," Otto tacked on as he let go of her, still smiling faintly for her. With that said, Emmi stepped forward, replacing him as she escorted the fellow mother back towards the door.

"I'll make us breakfast," he heard Emmi whisper to Elisabeth as he took a seat, reaching for his cigarettes. "When you return it will be ready, we'll take our minds off this matter, yes?"

Elisabeth nodded weakly.

"Bless you, Otto, bless your heart," He heard Elisabeth say from the door. Otto glanced up from his lighter and noticed Ernst's wife smiling for the first time as she added. "You're the only man in the Reich who can make me feel at ease about this. I know you'll find him."

Exhaling, he nodded and watched as the woman stepped outside, closing the door behind her, leaving Emmi to turn around to join Ernst. She sat down, taking a cigarette from his pack.

"What do you think that was about?" Emmi asked her husband.

Lighting his wife's cigarette as he inhaled his own, Otto could only shrug at his wife's question; she was clearly displeased with being volunteered to spending time with the shrew of a woman.

"Ernst has only two vices, his drinking and his mistress," he informed his inquisitive wife. "I can imagine this mystery involves one or the other."

Smirking at how unfazed Emmi was to hear of Ernst's infidelity, he leaned in, kissing his wife's forehead, Otto stood up and headed to find his uniform and have a shower. He was to meet the aristocrat Ernst was sleeping with, Gisela von Westarp.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

Three hundred thousand kilometres far above the Skorzeny, the blow of a fist connecting against his cheek woke Doctor Ernst Kaltenbrunner from his drug induced slumber.

His eyes wretched open and caught a second blow, dizzying his vision as the chair he was sat in fell back, tumbling the giant to the ground. Groaning, he rolled on top his back, his hands restrained yet there was no chains wrapped around his wrists. Looking up, he found his attacker standing over him. He stood there, bright eyes half closed, his skin grey, almost lifeless. He was twitching as though he was both in a state of furious rage and anguish.

Kaltenbrunner sneered upwards at the alien, spitting and drooling blood out of his mouth that splattered onto the white floor. He groaned and took a kick in his ribs.

That had to have been some sort hangover.

Rolling onto his back, he again groaned as he pushed himself across the floor until his back hit the wall. Carefully he propped himself up. Again the alien kicked him, the heel of its chicken like foot kicking in his cheek. The alien leaned down, grabbing Kaltenbrunner up by his collar; keep the man just lower than he. Huffing and rasping, the human still bared his teeth defiantly at the quarian. He could feel the hands shaking against him.

"I'll live…" Ernst murmured, spitting up more blood. "I can't say the same for one you were with, however."

The words were like a hot iron that cut through the quarian's arrogance. Before Ernst knew it, the quarian slammed his knee into Kaltenbrunner's gut and slammed his forehead into his, a sickening crunch as his nose broke. The alien let go and delivered another blow to his chest before stepping back, pacing back and forth in a state of uncontrollable rage.

"You _bastard_ … you disgusting overgrown vorcha," the alien shrieked down at him. "She had a child, a _son_... and you _killed_ her… for WHAT?!"

Not caring to know what a vorcha was, Ernst instead grinned weakly as he struggled back up to his feet, towering over the enraged alien. He raised his hands and slicked his parted hair back into place, his hand falling to his nose as he gingerly wiped the blood away. The alien thought he could elicit an emotional response. What the hell right did he have to guilt him? They attacked him, not the other way around. The bitch got exactly what she deserved.

Besides, who in their right mind sent goddamn women into military operations?

"She should have stayed at home tending to a child like a woman ought to be," he taunted as he looked down on the quarian, his hand digging into his jacket pocket and surprisingly finding a cigarette. Slipping it into his lip, he added derisively. "To think I doubted my friend's assessment of your species. Behind her technology, she still screamed when I shoved a piece of sharpened steel through her head..."

The alien roared, his hand backhanding the cigarette out of his lip, his other forming a fist that uppercut the giant. Ernst, winded and dazed, fell back hard on the floor, groaning as he lulled his head to one side, breathing erratic as he tried to control himself.

Ernst turned back, his blood stained teeth bared.

"I wonder what she must have felt in that last moment..." he egged the alien on, his voice growing more and more bold. "Standing over me so smugly, thinking that capturing me would be so easy. I wonder how it felt in the brief moment when she felt blade slowly cut through material… then... that last plunge... You should have protected her better... _coward_."

Again the physical abuse started again. This time however, it was weaker than before. The quarian was too blinded by his rage and already hurting from the amount of abuse he had already used on Ernst. His knuckles were swollen and bleeding. He could not keep this up any longer. Throwing Kaltenbrunner back against the wall, the alien fell down next to him, drawing what appeared to be a pistol at him.

Kaltenbrunner spat a mouthful of blood and rumbled a taunting chuckle as the barrel of the pistol was pressed into his scar.

"Go ahead, finish the job..." he slurred as he swallowed another mouthful of pooling blood. "I don't think your boss will be impressed. Their plans ruined by a _pion_ like you… a disposable resource..."

Ernst trailed off, his grin growing even wider.

"Kill me…" he requested, his bloodied teeth gritted as he looked up to his abductor. "Kill me, just like I killed your _wife_ …"

He did not make a noise, nor show his delight at the devastated reaction brought upon by Kaltenbrunner's deduction. His bright eyes widened, his mouth dropped open, his pistol wavered and pulled back a few inches. Kaltenbrunner listened to the breathing as it tightened to a shallow rasp. Ernst, still expressionless, leaned inwards.

"You didn't think I wouldn't catch onto that, did you?" he posed his question, sickeningly sympathetic. "Well, I can read a person, that's my greatest talent... and with such a simple skill, I _break_ little, weak men just like you. You… you're just another man I broke without even you realizing you're broken."

Pausing briefly, Ernst added. "It will be terrible… knowing your child is about to be an _orphan_..."

The alien, still stunned, blinked.

Kaltenbrunner's restrained hands flew up, bashing the pistol in the alien's hands out of his direction and lashed out. He lunged at him, his teeth latching around where Kaltenbrunner assumed his carotid artery was. With all his might, he bit as hard as he could into the alien's flesh, ignoring the screaming of the alien as his teeth slowly grind back and forth as he shredded and tore through, the sound of the pistol firing shots through the cell, eventually hitting the light source, closing the room in darkness.

The alarms sounded over them as the alien continued to scream and gargle, dying as Ernst continued to bite and tear through quarian flesh.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

Stepping out of the hospital to leave Helmet Mann chatting excitedly to his squad, Joachim Hoch closed the door behind him and took a seat on the chair opposite to the room.

He might have been friends with Mann, he might have earned his praises for this, he even received a laugh as Hammer told Mann why his face looked like he was hit by a Panzer, but still the SS man found himself feeling out of place. This was a reunion for a squad that fought and bled together. He had no right to be here.

Grabbing an old newspaper, he opened it up and read the latest news out of Africa: The British were done in the continent; the Americans did not have the balls to find any place to attack the Reich so they simply relied on cowardly air raids ordered by their Jew masters. It was the typical dribble spewed by that son of a bitch Streicher. Joachim might have disliked the Jew, but Streicher took it to a whole different playing field.

Perhaps it was best if he took off. Head back to Vienna and spend his last few days in Austria screwing Hanala's brains out until the two of them were called down to Libya like it was planned. It was hard to believe this would be the first time he saw actual combat since he lost his arm. He hoped he would not be rusty at it. Then again, the Americans they would be facing were fresh faced; they did not understand what it was like to fight to the death. It was like what Von Rundstedt had said: all the Wehrmacht had to do was inflict enough hell on them and they would turn tail and head back home.

The door opened yet again, out stepped the woman that he had picked up with the squad. It had been the Hiwi collaborator, the one that hung off Feldwebel.

She stared into the room briefly before she finally closed the door as the hospital room erupted into laughter. From here Joachim could hear the Russian breathe, rolling his eyes he went back to reading the newspaper in his hand.

He paid no attention as the woman turned around and stared at him. He did not notice the strange gratitude on her face.

" _Thank you…_ " he heard her thick accented voice call; out to him.

Joachim did not acknowledge her existence. He simply turned the page and read the Allied casualty stats of the week. He could hear her inch towards him, her hands fumbling together as she seemed extremely nervous at the thought of forcing a conversation with a man like him.

"Thank you for getting us out of Rostov..." she spoke again, her voice a little more clear, but her words still drowning in her accent and her uncertainty. "City was like hell... how you say... a purgatory… eating away at me... us. How we are expected to live there is... difficult to understand. Thank you for saving us."

Joachim did not reply, yet again he turned the page of his newspaper. Why couldn't this woman (and he used woman in the most _liberal_ possible way) simply leave him alone? He didn't aim to save their lives. He had a vested interest in a kid who shot his brains out. They simply got out of there by the grace of a favour for a friend he hadn't seen in years.

Leaning into his seat, he pulled out his cigarette case.

"You don't like me, yes?"

His eye twitching, Joachim closed his newspaper and finally looked to meet the woman named Tatiyana in the eye, his eyes were narrowed as he slipped a cigarette into his lip. Lesser men and women had often been startled by his glare. She did not move, she just simply stood there expecting an answer.

"You'll forgive me if I don't find myself accustomed to someone who looks and smells like abused livestock," Joachim sneered as he lit his cigarette. "Truth of the matter is I'm surprised you even know how to _talk_."

The woman stood there like a rock, she did not blink, nor did she did not recoil.

Exhaling violently, Joachim dug into his pocket and grabbed his wallet. Prying it open, he threw a hundred Reichsmark note at her feet.

"If you want to thank me, find the closest bathing receptacle, and buy something that makes you look halfway human," He growled at her as he swung one leg over the other and redirected his attention to his paper.

In spite of himself, Hoch looked at her, Raising his eyebrow as he noticed her hesitation. She just stood there staring at the currency lying at her feet.

"You do understand the concept of currency, you flea bitten, backwards Communist?"he growled at her. "Currency can be exchanged for goods and services. It's a means to keep you from selling your body for said goods and services, like I imagine you already are accustomed to..."

The mocking, sarcastic implication he made was right on the mark. Her eyes narrowed, she looked close to hitting him, but she restrained herself from doing anything at all. She must have known that hitting a German like him in Germany was probably grounds for a firing squad. Instead she clenched her hands together into fists.

"I'm not a whore," She protested without so much as raising her voice. "I'm not a communist."

Joachim snorted derisibly as he inhaled another drag.

"I can smell that Jew, Marx rolling out of your pores."

Joachim didn't even know why he was mad at this woman. She presented no threat to him in the slightest. It must have been reactionary. His time in Russia had made him come to hate the citizens of the Soviet Union as much as the Army.

Still the woman did not react.

"Please do not pretend to know me." She whispered softly. "My parents were murdered by the communists during the famine. I helped your side out since you arrived in Kiev. I kept your friend's soldiers fed and watered. Why would I do that if I was communist?"

Pursing his lips, Joachim finally exhaled, dropping his cigarette to the ground and stamping it. Slowly, he chuckled lowly; perhaps there were some redeemable qualities in the stray.

"I'll give you this, most women I know would start to cry and run away the moment I called you a pig or a whore," he muttered as he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

The woman named Tatiyana shrugged.

"When you're beaten and nearly raped, words don't hurt as much," she returned still as neutral as her voice had been.

Joachim blinked at her candid remark. Reluctantly, he allowed his guard to drop. He would drop the attitude for now, being here. It must have been a God send. Silently he watched as the woman eyed the currency on the ground. It wasn't so much out of greed but of longing. It was probably more money than she had seen in some time. What she could do with it was unlimited.

"Take it; God knows you need it more then I..." he spoke softly for the first time, his tone snapping her attention back to him. "Find something to eat or wear, it's yours."

Joachim stood up and looked over her shoulder to the hospital room.

"Just... tell Mann that I'm being deployed to North Africa..." he informed the woman, who looked nervous him standing close to him. "I will speak to him if I get back."

Joachim grabbed his coat and wandered down the hallway to the nearest exit, not paying mind to the woman she leant down and gingerly grabbed the bill. She stood back up and pocketed the money.

 _"Thank you..."_ she called after him.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

"What happened?"

"I don't know, Admiral! Specialist Olanar'Vael discharged himself from the medical bay. He went to interrogation! He hit me when I tried to intervene!"

Storming down the corridors of the _Kareon_ , Halid'Zorah and Alaan'Jarva were followed by guards as overhead the alarm system blared. He could not believe this had happened, he understood why Vael would do it, but surely he knew better than to attack a prisoner that they needed to keep in one piece. Sure enough, the attendant on call was sporting a bruise that wrapped around his eye.

"Get your assistants and head to the holding cells." Jarva ordered the doctor on Halid's behalf. "Prepare for alien medical treatments."

As the doctor nodded and left, Halid ducked his head and kept his expression neutral as Alaan glared over in his direction. He had deserved the scorn; he should have kept a closer eye on the situation. It was bad enough Kaltenbrunner killed one operator, to have him die now would ruin a perfectly good plan he had devised.

Turning the corner they found half a dozen security personal gathered around the entrance to the interrogation centre. Two were working their omni-tool, trying to bypass the security. The others had gone the manual approach; they had raided the mechanic shop and were trying to jam crowbars into the sealed door, behind them stood a pacing older man, his hand burying his face. He was the warden and he had screwed up big time. Turning to see the two Admirals marching towards him only made everything worse.

" _ **What in the Ancestor's name is happening here, Warden Mayva**_ **?!** " Alaan shouted at the warden as he stopped pacing back and forth while his tech team tried to unseal the doors locked by the grieving Special Forces operator. "I thought I told you no one is to enter the cell with Kaltenbrunner. Can you confirm that Vael in there?"

"Yes, Admiral, I did," the warden admitted his voice growing high as he tried to defend his action. "He lost his wife grabbing that alien bastard. I thought he was right to get a little pay back. I didn't know he was going to lock the place down and kill him!"

Rubbing his forehead, now throbbing from the stress of what this mess was causing, Halid pushed the Warden out of his way.

"I will deal with you later," Zorah growled at the Warden whom had failed him. "Fry the locking mechanism with an EMP chip. We'll fix it later."

The tech team glanced at each other, but listened, placing the small charge into the opened circuit panel. Closing the panel, one of them activated their omni-tool and remote activated the charge. The panel hissed and the light s over the doorway flickered. The door groaned and unhinged, giving the crowbar welding security team just enough room to pry the doorway open.

The doors to the observation room opened, the room was minimally lit by ambient light from the terminals. The interrogation room behind the glass was pitch black; there was no sign of anyone alive in there. The security detail, weapons raised, rushed to try to power the room. The two Admirals moved out of the way as the physician and his assistants stepped into the room, prepared to enter and treat if necessary. Zorah could only hope that the human had not been killed by the widower.

He was going to have to change the policy on service. A married couple allowed working in special operations two man teams. What kind of bosh'tet would sign off on that garbage? Now Specialist Vael's son was motherless. This was a complete disaster.

"Emergency lights activated," one of the technicians shouted out "Medical team prepare to enter."

The emergency lights flashed on, with that the security team stood up, gripping their submachine guns tightly as looked to assess the situation. They should have been in the room by now, yet they weren't. They did not move, they simply stood there, frozen as they stared through the observation window stepping forward and pushing through the security; Zorah blinked and bit back the gasp building in his throat.

Standing there in the newly lit room was Ernst Kaltenbrunner standing on the other side of the glass, staring back at them, hands trying to flatten out and button up his uniform. His face was smashed up and covered in dark blood belonging clearly to a quarian; his cheeks were puffed out as he glared through the mixture of his own blood and quarian. It was obvious he was having a reaction to the dextro bodily fluids.

There at his feet, laid Vael, lying on his chest, his head pulled back at an unnatural angle, revealing his throat shredded open. It took all the efforts of Zorah not to vomit in disbelief.

Smirking as he realized he was being looked at with such a fear that it spread through the entire observation room, Kaltenbrunner opened his bloodied lips and allowed a mouthful of Vael's flesh and blood to slowly drip out of his mouth, pooling a puddle in front of the dead commando.

" _Admiral Zorah, I presume…"_ Kaltenbrunner gurgled out through the mouthful of quarian blood draining out of his mouth.

Behind a numb Zorah and a nauseated Jarva, the room burst into a collective scream at the sight.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

Tightening his coat, Otto Skorzeny shuffled in place as he knocked on the manor doors once again.

Expecting her servants to open the door, Skorzeny froze at the sight of the Countess standing before him; a faint look of curiosity was there. She was certainly a step up from Elisabeth Edler, a light haired beauty with every classic aristocratic feature that he thought she would have. Otto pulled off his cap and pressed it against his heart respectfully. He might have been a soldier, but beauty didn't escape his eye.

"You must be Herr Skorzeny, please come inside," Countess Gisela von Westarp ushered him in, her voice light and almost a song, "What brings you here? I trust it not be of great national security concerns."

Ignoring the hand touching his shoulder and the slight befuddlement he felt, if only for a brief moment, Skorzeny shook his head.

"My apologies for appearing on your front steps uninvited, I'm looking for Herr Kaltenbrunner, Countess. Is he here?" Otto inquired as Gisela allowed her hand to slip off him. "I'm afraid his wife feels it necessary to look into it."

The Countess frowned at the mention of Elisabeth. To think this woman was playing second fiddle to the likes of that Edler dog must have rubbed her the wrong way. Even Otto had to question his decision. Regardless, Gisela erased the distasteful expression off her face and instead simply smiled a clearly false smile.

"No, he left last night just before midnight," she sighed, crossing her arms. "He wanted to see the children before we headed back to Berlin... Would you like to stay for a drink? I should think you have earned one having had the good nature to indulge that snaggletoothed _bitch's_ request to find a man well out of her social standing."

It took all of Otto's efforts not to burst out into laughter.

"I'm afraid not, thank you for the offer however," Skorzeny declined as gracefully as he could. "May I check around your grounds for clues?"

The Countess inclined her head.

Accepting the response, Skorzeny nodded respectfully and turned away. Paying no mind to the door closing behind him, Skorzeny's eyes searched the snow. Sure enough he found the imprints of what appeared to be boots that Kaltenbrunner wore, his imprints long, his strides even longer, no real disciplined movement to his movement caused by indulging in alcohol.

Skorzeny smirked at the trail. Yes, it was Kaltenbrunner alright.

Perhaps it was high time he intervene. Ernst could not possibly keep doing this, drinking this heavily. Normally he would not concern himself with such matters, but with Heydrich down for the time being and Ernst now the acting head of the RSHA, the last thing he needed was having this addiction dictating his command decisions. Heydrich might have been a son of a bitch, but he was a sober one.

His smirk vanished as he reached the end of the trail. Near the wheel imprints left by the car, the entire bank of snow had been flattened out, as though Kaltenbrunner fell and had a seizure. As far as he knew, that was not the case. Narrowing his eyes, his eyes scanned around the surrounding area. That was when he noticed it. Frozen in the cold was blood. Not a lot of it, but enough to tell something happened.

Squatting, he touched his finger against the stain, his eyes noticing that buried around the bloodstain were shards of what appeared to be glass. It was peculiar, to say the least. Perhaps he had tripped, hit his head against the side window, or he punched it out after locking the keys inside; both of these hypotheses made sense once he factored in Kaltenbrunner's drinking.

Of course that was before his eyes widened as he caught sight of another peculiar sight.

It was a new set of tracks... and then a second pair. As surprised as he might have been, it paled when he realized that the tracks were not human.

Humans did not have two large toes.

Skorzeny unclasped his pistol as he kicked the tracks as he headed up to their source. He had come to one conclusion that made his blood run cold.

Quarians. Those Quarians grabbed Ernst.

 _Son of a Bitch…_

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

Groaning slightly as he touched his nose. Ernst Kaltenbrunner's eyes watched as Vael's body was wrapped up in a body bag and carried out. There was not a moment of remorse in his posture. Halid did his best not to show how angry and apprehensive he might have been.

"Shame," the SS man growled. "He and his partner seemed so talented."

Pushing his false praise aside, Kaltenbrunner turned back to Zorah, ignoring the dozen rifles pointing at him from behind Admiral Zorah. He paid no mind to the trembling nurse injecting him with an antiallergenic. His face now cleaned, but the wounds left unattended. If they were going to release him, it had to look like a car accident now. He had been seriously intoxicated so it made sense that a crash was bound to happen.

Let him go. It was the last thing that Halid had ever wanted to do now. Joachim was right about him. Sitting before him was the worst that humanity could ever possibly offer, and here he was, about to make a deal with him. Had this been under any other circumstances, he would have ordered his sniper team to kill this bastard last night.

"You know, the blood of those two assassins you sent for me is on your hands, right?" Ernst spoke lazily as he grabbed a cigarette from off the table in front of them. "If you wanted to have a conversation, you simply had to ask me. I'm not normally like this… But when you push a man like me to an edge, what the hell did you expect would happen?"

Waiting for Zorah to reluctantly lean over the table to light his cigarette, Kaltenbrunner exhaled and sat back into his seat.

"I'm going to lay this out as simply as I can," Zorah replied, shoving any responsibility he felt aside. "Things in Germany are soon going to be shaken up, whether you want to come out of it alive is up to you in the next few minutes. So let's cut all the loyalty to the Führer garbage and get right to the matter at hand."

Kaltenbrunner tilted his head slightly, his smug expression was amused at the Admiral had said, but he appeared to be interested.

"If that is what you wish, I'm listening."

Halid remained silent. His hand reached over the table to grab a cigarette for himself. Lighting it like he had gone a hundred times before the various German officers he had dealt with, he took a deep inhale, trying his best not to cough, which would probably lead to insults from the acting head of the RSHA. He could not be viewed as not in charge of this, He had already damaged his position and respect amongst his contemporaries. The brute had already killed two highly trained specialists and had frightened every other quarian on the ship...

"If you want your survival you will first cease all investigation into Joachim Hoch," he spoke, blowing spoke in Kaltenbrunner's direction. "When I call on you next, you will promote Joachim to Standartenführer. With his new promotion comes a new assignment. You will make him head of Herr Hitler's personal guard for his retreat at the Kehlsteinhaus."

Kaltenbrunner flicked his cigarette at one of the marine guards, bouncing of his rifle. Slowly he chuckled, unable to believe what he was hearing. It appeared he had managed to surprise the head of the RSHA.

Zorah did not blink. Both he and Von Rundstedt had come up with the plan. Joachim, along with a small team hidden away in Berchtesgarden would capture the Fuhrer as Guderian marched a couple divisions into the mountain town that was essentially one of the SS hotbeds. With any luck, capturing Hitler would bring about a peaceful, if somewhat bloody transition to Wehrmacht control. It would also win points with the west. That the war criminal Hitler was alive and could be placed on trial for his crimes, including the genocide that was ultimately his responsibly.

"You want me to aid that Jew loving traitor slit the nation's throat?" Kaltenbrunner growled at the Admiral, leaning forward into his seat. "And what if I refuse? What if what I was to tell Himmler and the rest of the SS leadership and I capture your advisors, and string them up along with whoever you are working with?"

Ignoring the worry built up in the pit of his gut, Halid opened up his briefcase and slid a file folder over to Kaltenbrunner. Glaring at the quarian, Ernst turned his eyes down and opened it.

"I take these files, doctored to look as though you are looking to speed up Heydrich's succession to Fuhrer, I hand them to Hoch, who in turn, takes them to the Führer himself," Zorah explained as he enjoyed the sight of Kaltenbrunner growing pale as he read what was essentially the coup's plans, only altered to fit the SS's ascending to power. "The power you think you hold will then evaporate faster then you'll have the chance to use it."

Halid trailed off as he watched the human now shaking with rage, he clench his hands into fists. Before Kaltenbrunner knew, Halid leaned over the table and punched him in the cheek, knocking the giant to the ground. The human groaned, not realizing that Zorah was standing up, His hands wrapped around Kaltenbrunner's collar. Halid drug him towards the guards who trained their weapons at him… just in case.

"Hitler will destroy the three of you… Himmler, Heydrich and you," he said as he shoved the numb sensation in his knuckles. "He would not look beyond the threat presented to him... Your death will be assured while our plans go unhindered..."

Zorah kept his eyes on him. He was bluffing in all likelihood. He could not read what would happen if he were to place the three of them in the crosshairs of the most powerful man in the Reich. From all accounts, Hitler was a delusional paranoid, a hidden psychopath by Von Rundstedt's estimates. It did not matter, for now Kaltenbrunner seemed to be inclined to doing exactly what was asked of him.

Seeing the man nod, Halid pulled Ernst closer to him, then pushed him back hard, releasing his grip and slamming the bastard hard against the floor. Readjusting his uniform, Admiral Zorah pushed his way out of the interrogation room. He had grieving parents to lie to and a plot that was now becoming a reality.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

Closing the door of his Kubelwagen, Joachim pulled off his cap, tossing it onto the side seat; he lowered his head onto the steering wheel, his eyes closing.

Having spent most of the past few days on a transport plane made him want nothing more than to go to sleep and not wake up for the next few days. He found himself wishing that he had been able to convince the quarians to loan him a pilot and one of their shuttlecrafts. He would have been in and out of Russia in a matter of minutes.

Of course, that would lead him having to answer a lot of awkward questions asked by the squad he was shuttling around. Still, anything was better than air lag he was suffering from. Leaning backwards he rubbed his eyes. He needed a drink.

Justas he fantasized about being drunk, the omni-tool on his machine arm beeped, catching his attention. Pulling up his sleeve, he activated the device and suddenly found himself staring into the strained expression of an older man, weathered by leading from the front rather than behind.

"Herr Generaloberst?" He greeted the man.

There was no exchange of pleasantries. Guderian as a very terse man who only respected those who could prove themselves to him; Well, Joachim would have to do just that for the General, the Father of the Blitzkrieg.

 _"I am to inform you that you are to report back to Vienna and pick up your... associate."_ he said, sounding rather bothered at the mention of the quarian. _"The two of you will be transferred down to me in Libya in two days times. Quarian spy drones are watching an armada leaving port and heading our way."_

Joachim widened his eyes briefly. So it was about to begin. With any hope, the quarians had made contact with the Kreigsmarine and sent down a few U-boats to harass the fleet. If they sunk a few troop transports ships, the operation would be hampered significantly.

"I'm already back in Vienna." Joachim replied finally. Taking a deep breath, he added. "What about Kaltenbrunner? Has he been dealt with?"

Guderian nodded.

" _Kaltenbrunner was picked up last night by Halid'Zorah. No word yet if he's been dealt with,"_ The General informed the Obersturmbannführer. _"Regardless, I will see you soon enough, Herr Hoch."_

Guderian disconnected, leaving Hoch in a suddenly better mood than before. Turning the car key and listening to the engine rev to life. Hoch hoped to God that the quarians were making Kaltenbrunner suffer as bad, or worse, then he had.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

Kaltenbrunner opened his eyes.

He looked around his surroundings There wasn't much to look at. He was back in his car, but the car was planted face first into a ditch. Ernst blinked, had it all been an alcoholic dream? Had he simply had the suffered from the side effects of a car crash?

Looking into the mirror, he opened his mouth and found his teeth stained with blood that did not belong to him. No, it had certainly not been a dream. The quarians had grabbed him; he killed two of them and had now found himself blackmailed into a conspiracy to overthrow the Party.

 _Alien bastards._

A knock on the window caught his attention. Before he knew it, the door was pried open and he was suddenly dragged out of the car. One look at the familiar mensur scar running down the side of his face made the acting head of the RSHA breathe a sigh of relief.

It was Otto Skorzeny, he could not have been happier to see this son of bitch in his life.

"Ernst... Had a rough night I see," Otto jested as he sat Ernst up and opened the bag on him, in it were medical supplies. Carefully, Skorzeny's finger's realigned Ernst's broken nose and held it in place as he searched for medical tape.

"Otto?" Ernst managed to gasp, ignoring the agony of Skorzeny's rough hands mangling his nose even more than it already was. "Otto I am glad you stopped by."

Chuckling lowly, Skorzeny finished bracing the nose and pulled back, his hand running along his snow covered moustache. He sat back in the snow and gave Ernst room to move his hands gingerly through the medical bag to cover his various lacerations.

"Your wife sent me to find you," he explained as he pulled off his jacket and handed it to Kaltenbrunner. "I was expecting you with the Countess. Not grabbed by the quarians... you left quite a mess."

Pulling the coat over his shoulders, Kaltenbrunner accepted a cigarette and allowed Skorzeny to light it for him. Skorzeny knew... of course he knew, the man spent a good year combined tracking the French Resistance and then destroying the Czech's a tussle between him and two aliens would not have gone unnoticed.

"The quarians..." Ernst repeated, his voice disgusted, "They do not like me all that much. I suppose I did not win any favours when I killed two of them. You were right about them... arrogant."

Kaltenbrunner laughed as Skorzeny stared wide eyed at what he had said. Yes. He had killed two these aliens and had essentially gotten away with it. They weren't special beyond their technology. They were just as stupid as any other human they wanted to comingle with.

" _My God..."_ Skorzeny whispered. "Why did they grab you?"

Kaltenbrunner shrugged.

"To place me into their little plot," He said, deciding not to explain it for the time being. "They plan on overthrowing everything we have worked for. Judging from the way they talk, there is mutiny in the air within the Wehrmacht hierarchy."

Skorzeny scowled at the mention of the Wehrmacht. He stood up and leaned over, helping the taller man up to his feet.

"Then what is our next move then, Ernst?" He questioned as he wrapped his arm around Kaltenbrunner's waist and led him back to the road. Kaltenbrunner lowered his head as he deliberated.

"They're not the only race that knows how to plot," he informed the Commando. Glancing to Skorzeny, he added. "Will stand by me? It will get messy and we will have to do things that, on the surface, may look questionable to our loyalty to the Führer. In the end, our work will expose every bastard that is helping the aliens."

Yes… he would go along with what he had promised. Ersnt was not a stupid man. If the quarians had decided to remove Hitler, there was not much anyone could do to stop it. While it might have been an inevitability, that did not mean that a few… complications could be directed at the aliens…

"I stand by the Führer." Skorzeny spoke, his voice dull. "If you have this new opportunity to protect Him, then I stand by you as well."

Kaltenbrunner nodded. Together they wandered back in the direction of the Countess' manor. Perhaps he would get a quick fuck in before they left.

He had certainly earned it.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

 **Changes: Clean-up and a removal of a catty, edgy scene between Hanala and Helena.**


	11. January 13th, 1943

**Chapter Eleven: January 13th, 1943**

 **...**

A knock on the door caught their attention.

Hanala growled into the nook of his neck, making John grin as he pushed her hair out of his face. He barely just had time to enter her, barely enough time to generate sex sweat. Under most circumstances, he would simply scream at however was disturbing him, but he was at the front and he had brought a woman he was in a relationship with.

Unfortunately for the two of them, service came before pleasure, no matter how little he felt for being a soldier.

Yes, Joachim Hoch, who had spent a little less than ten years dreaming of doing what he was doing now was worn out with the war.

He was _done_ with the rank.  
He was _done_ with the uniform.  
He was _done_ with saluting.  
He was _done_ with all of the SS customs.  
He was done with taking life.  
He was done with losing lives.

All of these things had stopped meaning anything to him these days. Not as he lived with this sense of overwhelming fear. Fear that he would die soon never left his mind no matter how brave a face he could put on. Most of all he feared putting Hanala in this position. Twice he told her that he didn't want her down here, and twice she politely informed him she was not his to command. That it was her life and she wanted to stand by him.

It left Joachim feeling somewhat guilty. Like she felt obligated to help him after what had happened. A year being lied to, massive injuries caused by her carelessness and him harping on it, making her feel that much more guilty about something she could not fix. Well he didn't want that, not anymore. Considering the people he once considered perfect had turned out to be mass murdering sociopaths, his injuries were well earned and well deserved.

All he wanted now was peace and quiet.

Pulling out of Hanala, much to their frustration, Joachim grabbed a blanket off the bed, wrapping himself up like the Arabs he had seen since he had gotten here. Joachim moved to the door and pried it open, finding a Heer Feldwebel standing there, unfazed by the nudity only barely covered up by Hoch. Apparently aware of whom Hoch was, he clicked his boots together and offered the party salute.

"Herr Obersturmbannführer, you have several visitor requesting your presence, they said it was urgent," was the soldier's reason to his interrupting him.

Shooting the NCO a hard glare, mostly for interrupting, but also for misusing his title like every low ranking Heer grunt did, Hoch simply nodded and closed the door behind him. Great, he had to get back to work, silently, he dropped the blanket. And turned back to Hanala, who sat up as well

Pulling on his underwear as Hanala was doing the same, he suddenly found Hanala pressing her lips to his briefly.

"I suppose our activities will be limited now," she murmured softly, unable to hide a note of displeasure at this state of affairs.

Joachim nodded at their remark as he took a seat to pull on his trousers. Digging into his pocket he found his cigarettes, offering one to Hanala before lighting one up for himself.

"Probably for the best," he spoke in between inhales. Smirking slightly, he added. "I was starting to get a rash from you."

Finishing pulling on his uniform, he turned back to pour himself a warm glass of water. He winced as he drank it. He could taste the dust kicked up last night's sandstorm over the city. Swallowing hard, he turned back to Hanala who was taping her breasts back up in an effort to make her appear less shapely.

"Tell me you don't want to live here after the war," Joachim muttered as he smoked. "This place wasn't built for Europeans."

Hanala could only roll her eyes as she started to button her uniform jacket up.

"Maybe once the cities are in construction, I doubt we will want to build on ancient cities," she paused as she struggled to work her trousers on. "Besides, I'm starting to get use to cooler environments... I still hate snow, however."

Joachim nodded. Perhaps they could work out some sort of arrangement that involved winters in North Africa. Joachim paused. Once again he was thinking far too ahead. One day at a time, at least until this war was over.

"Joachim?" Hanala called out, her voice soft.

Joachim turned back as he pulled his cap over his head, his hand on the door. He turned back and took in Hanala's nervous expression.

"I love you."

Joachim simply nodded.

"I know."

Joachim grinned at the look of rage tore across Hanala's face. He closed the door and headed out into the hot Tunis Street.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

"Herr Hoch... Joachim, old man!"

Joachim froze as he heard his name spoke by a familiar voice just as he stepped out of his quarters. He turned and found none other than Helmut Mann approaching him. He looked tender, but otherwise alright all things considering he was in a hospital bed only a few days prior. Standing there with him were his comrades, Bohr, Hammer and Oster. Behind them was the stray they could not seem to rid themselves of. The woman, Tatiyana

"Helmut, What in the hell are you doing here," Hoch spoke up, somewhat surprised that they were standing here. All of them did not seem rested. Now they stood in another theatre of war.

The slight grin vanished off Mann's face.

"You hadn't heard?" Mann spoke up, surprised by his friend's ignorance. "You apparently have been issued a command by Rommel himself. You are now in command of me, my squad and eight hundred men who also escaped Stalingrad. Manstein himself sent us down here."

Joachim blinked. Eight hundred men? Where in the hell did this come from? He had been in Tunis for three days now and there had been no goddamn word that he would be given a command. Was Rommel or Guderian in their right mind? He wasn't fit to command men after what had happened outside of Moscow, and that had been two hundred men. What in the hell was he going to do with eight hundred!

Shaking his head he did not register the laughter coming from Mann. He appeared to be the only one actually happy to be issued the new marching orders. He wasn't quite aware of how much a son of bitch Joachim actually was.

"Hello, Herr Obersturmbannführer."

Joachim turned around, his eyes widened slightly.

Next to Mann appeared none other than Heinrich Fuhrmann. He looked different. In Joachim's rush to get down to North Africa, He hadn't had time to speak to the grief stricken young soldier. The news of his Brother's demise shattering a lot of the confidence he had built up since he ended up in Joachim's command. To have him back at the front when he was still wounded and had a young wife he should be focused on. Having him here, it made no sense.

"Unteroffizier Fuhrmann. You don't have to be here," Hoch nearly barked, trying in vain to convince him to turn tail and leave. Fuhrmann merely shook his head.

"It's Feldwebel now, and yes I do, Herr Hoch. I figured I have been side-lined long enough," Heinrich spoke quietly, still not looking Hoch in the eyes. "The Danish Garrison was recalled down to North Africa. I had Gerald find my old platoon... the ones that... you know... we'll be under your command as well."

The rumbling of an engine caught everyone's attention. Coming around the corner was one of those giant Tigers. Unlike other Tigers, who kept their vehicle as professional looking as possible, this Tiger was littered with patchwork repairs, the crew found time to paint menacing looking blood soaked teeth. As it same to a halt, Joachim could see dozens of crudely painted iron crosses on the side panel and Sigrid II stencilled on the side of the turret.

Hatch screeched open and one by one the Tiger crew popped out and dropped down into the sand. The final one was the wonderful son of a bitch who saved Hanala, Martus and himself from that Prothean ship.

"Well, well, well! It's a fucking reunion going on!"

It was Dieter Hertzer and his crew. Wearing tattered, sandblasted uniforms, all of them looked as though they hadn't seen a shower and a shave in months. Clearly the desert had turned the Tiger crew half mad by the way they were grinning at him.

Joachim could not help himself, he grinned back. There was something about these guys that made him wish he had signed up for the Panzerkorps instead. Their devil-may-care attitude was infectious.

"Hertzer... You too?" Fuhrman spoke before Hoch had a chance to. Exhaling his cigarette, Hertzer nodded, spitting towards Mann and his boys.

"Reassigned, my lead filled friend!" was Hertzer's cool response. "The boys and I were reprimanded for unauthorized extracurricular night-time raids against the British into the Suez. Last I count we torched up about a seventy tanks and other vehicles before the Generalfeldmarschall caught on. Rommel slapped an Iron Cross on each of our chests and kicked our asses out of his personal division, handed us to Guderian, who told us we'd be fighting for you."

The panzer crew chuckled briefly before Hertzer turned his focus onto the peculiar unofficial add on to Mann's group, the woman, Tatiyana, who turned her eyes away from looking at the rough looking panzer man.

"Can I ask why you lot brought a woman? She's kind of pretty for a Slav," he breathed, almost leering at her.

Tatiyana once again shrunk back at the suggestively spoken question. Christian Bohr however stepped forward, his gaunt face glaring at Hertzer.

"She speaks English and isn't afraid to look male," Christian defended her. "If you have a problem with it, tell me now."

Hertzer looked at the NCO curiously.

"No problem at all, Herr Skeleton. If you find having intercourse with a gender ambiguous woman alluring, then by all means have fun with it," Hertzer mocked, not worried about insulting the half-starved looking Bohr. "Fighting with a woman isn't a novelty to me anymore."

Not noticing the significant look shot towards Joachim, who inwardly smiled at the reference, Mann stepping in between them before Bohr could work up the nerve to smash in the weathered and significantly stronger looking Hertzer, Mann cleared his throat. The last anyone needed was a fight to erupt between the tankers and his men.

"So... back in command," Mann spoke up, slapping his CO on his back. "I trust that the 438th Mechanized Infantry Kampfgruppe 'Hoch' won't slow you down."

Hoch pushed all of his personal doubts aside. Slowly, he nodded and even allowed himself to crack a mild smirk.

"I guess I'm going to have to call the 438 _, 'The Scrap Battalion'_ ," Hoch returned, looking to each of his new subordinates. "Danish occupation troops, severely wounded men, a sun crazed Panzer crew, shell shocked Eastern Front veterans and a Ukrainian interpreter in the one front that doesn't need Ukrainian or Russian interpretation…"

" _I speak English_ ," the woman spoke up for the first time, repeating Bohr's defence, her German somewhat broken as always. Hoch rolled his eyes and turned to Heinrich, who had cleared his throat.

"Sir... is your… _confidant_ apart of the unit?"

Hoch simply offered the new Feldwebel a nod before turning back to face Mann, who appeared confused.

"Yes. I imagine my confidant will be a part of the unit," Hoch returned. "Mann, bring your intimates along with me. I have someone you need to meet. It's time you catch up on recent events."

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

The roar of the Panzerkampfwagen V ' _Panther_ ' was definitely a pass in his books.

Both Rommel and Guderian had decided on taking one of the new quarian built Panther Tanks just outside of Tunis and put it through a couple of tests. So far it was succeeding their wildest imaginations. Not that it was hard to do for Rommel, whom had only learned of this addition to his Panzer force few days ago.

Rommel watched as the new Panther launched itself over a dune with the speed of a Panzer IV. It hit the ground and continued to press on at just about 60 kilometres per hour. Next to him stood Guderian, his mouth wide open in a bright grin as the panzer turret turned, its long barrelled 75mm L/70 Cannon, took aim and fired on a captured and disabled Crusader tank.

The round shredded through the hull as expected, but what shocked the two Tankers was how little the Panther slowed down. Rommel glanced to the person standing to his left. Admiral Utala'Falan, who turned her eyes away from the Panther as it veered back around to join the Generalfeldmarschall, the Generaloberest and the quarian Admiral in disguise. Guderian was clapping his hands excitedly as the heavy tank of his dreams came to a full stop in front of the high ranking officers.

"We went ahead and added gyroscope stabilization the main gun, it will allow your Panther crew to remain fast and accurate," Utala explained as the Panther came to a stop in front of them. "The gyroscope is connected to a hidden processor machine. The gunner unknowingly works in conjunction with a virtual intelligence program."

Guderian pulled off his cap, resting it on the track. He was grinning like a mad man. For the first time since the outbreak of the war, they had actually listened to his requests. He was a man who preferred his task force to be made up of Panzer III's and IV's, but to have his work validated into this machine was a first.

"Fantastic, I do not think I have ever seen a more beautiful piece of technology in my life," the Generaloberst nearly swooned, turning to the Admiral, he added. "How many more of these have we been given?"

"Four hundred, Herr General, I am afraid that is all we can spare for the moment," Utala replied. "The German built Panthers will be deployed to the East and the remaining machines, reserved to the plan."

Still grinning, Guderian slapped the sloped frontal armour and nodded. He did not notice Rommel's sudden crestfallen expression.

"More than enough for the time being, this was exactly what I had asked for," Guderian stated. "The Tiger series is simply a pain in the neck. I will ask you to leave those units defending the Suez. Herr Generalfeldmarschall."

The Generalfeldmarschall nodded at the plan. The Tigers were best left in the defensive or placed on as support tanks. Guderian required a fast and heavy hitting attack. One that could be hard targets for American and British air forces to hit if they could maintain their speed and manoeuvre like the British navy ducking and dodging U-Boats.

"You will be taking command of this half of this armour," Rommel comfirmed to his executive officer. "Organize whatever has landed. I want several placed under Hoch's command."

Guderian nodded.

"Very well, I will make my leave and return to the headquarters," Guderian concluded "I must make the last touches to that Kampfgruppe you thrown in my lap."

Smirking slightly to the Admiral and the Generalfeldmarschall, Guderian slammed his fist onto the hatch twice. That was all it took for Guderian to get the Panther Tank moving. In a matter of moments, the Panther was in the distance, leaving the two secretly tense woman and man alone. Slowly, Admiral Falan joined Rommel's side.

"Something troubles you," Utala spoke to no one in particular "I know how moody you get, so go on and get it out."

Erwin scowled at the remark offered by the quarian. Yes he had concerns, but he certainly did not need to be treated like a woman about it; with scorn or worse, brushed off with amusement.

"I just hope that it will be enough," he spoke up finally, rounding back to the woman. "We may have strength in armour and experience, but the enemy has numbers and air cover."

All the Admiral could do was shrug.

"I cannot do anything about numbers other than what damage these tanks and the assault rifles can inflict on the Allies," she informed him, her voice patient with him. "Zorah and Jarva are training a volunteer aerial force to supplement air cover. How it will be deployed I don't know. That will take some time."

Rommel turned away, stoic as ever as he wandered over to the destroyed Crusader Tank. Utala followed after him. Forgetting professionalism, she grabbed his arm and pulled him back. Looking side to side and finding that the two of them were completely alone, Utala leaned in to kiss him. She pulled back; smiling bemusedly that the man had not cracks a lighter look, let alone kiss back.

"Lighten up; you have received a first physical gift from us," Utala reminded him, her voice trying to remain playful, in spite of her annoyance building. "At least pretend to be gracious..."

Gripping his hands, she watched as Erwin's expression turned into one of an outright scowl.

"If I am not mistaken, I am showing my graciousness by deceiving my leaders and sacrificing my men's lives for _your_ future adopted homeland; Tens of thousands dead because you and the rest of the admiralty wanted total British destruction in the North Africa," Rommel's usually calm voice shot back, growing higher and higher. "Now with the invasion I am poised to lose tens of thousands more. The oddest thing is that you could end this war _tomorrow_ , if you so choose to. But you won't. No, you would rather sneak in the shadows rather than show your faces, and make my people down in their own blood than risk a bad first impression."

Huffing, he took a step back from her.

"These panzers are but first payment for the blood spilled on your behalf. For everyone's sake, Zorah and Jarva had better deliver on this so called air support. Or all of my progress will be undone in a matter of months," he pressed, annoyed by all of this. "Conquering Egypt has forced the Allies hand. They will throw everything they have at us in the west."

Rommel wrenched his hands away from Utala, leaving her shocked.

"Now come," he grumbled. "I have a few notes you will relay to your friends."

Utala, bothered by the behaviour shown by Rommel, simply nodded and followed the man back to the staff car.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

A knock on the door interrupted the second attempt before it even got off the ground. Growling on behalf of Hanala this Joachim launched himself off Hanala, who moaned, just as annoyed as he was. She dragged herself off the bed

They had found some free time. The Mann group had left, dazed at the two hour story Hanala and he had told them. Mann nearly shit himself when Hanala greeted them. It amused Joachim greatly. They had to be very carefully about what exactly the ultimate goal was. No one, not even Heinrich Fuhrmann had been aware of the plot brewing away under their noses. It made Joachim feel incredibly guilty and it brought about a newfound respect for Hanala, whom had hid this truth from him for such a long time.

So, having said their goodbyes and mused on the new people that she would be introduced to Notably Tatiyana Andrusiv, who, as another woman who had volunteered herself to go to a war, made Hanala extremely curious about her, they decided to fill the next hour or so with a second attempt at have sex.

Opening the door, he did not have time to stop the man from entering the room. He pulled off his visor cap, revealing slicked back blonde hair. His lapels marked him as Waffen-SS, the same rank as he was. The man looked to Hanala, whose bright eyes were glaring at him, then back to Hoch, a boyish smile appearing, hiding his extremely deadly reputation.

"I would hate to break up the celebratory mood," spoke the Obersturmbannführer, only a few years older than Joachim. "I imagine being issued a command back must be quite exciting."

Hoch narrowed his eyes at the Obersturmbannführer.

"Joachim Peiper," Hoch breathed his greeting. "It had been quite some time since we last spoke."

Obersturmbannführer Joachim Peiper continued to hold his smile. One of Himmler's favourites in the Waffen-SS, the soldier the next generation of young soldiers wanted to become. Ruthless and daring, he stood there proud and unperturbed by what he had walked into. It was clear he was aware of the quarians, even aware of the nature of the relationship between himself and Hanala. Someone told. Perhaps it had been Kaltenbrunner.

Reluctantly, Joachim offered his hand out to Peiper, who took it, still much more good natured than Hoch on the surface at least. They shook hands before dropping the grip. Hoch smirked slightly as visually wiped his hand on his pant leg, earning a sharp scowl from Peiper.

"Academy, I was hoping that it would have stayed the same, to be honest," Peiper returned as his words much colder than before. "Unfortunately this war has meant we must all make sacrifices. I have been requested to take position as your Executive Officer. The Reichsführer himself has seen fit to our reunion. I believe he believes we'll be creating another Waffen-SS outfit in the Africa Front. Rommel was only too glad to be rid of me. Contemptible defeatist, had it not been for the party he would just be another two bit General, vying for attention."

Snorting in disbelief, Peiper stepped into the room, his eyes flickering once more to Hanala, this time however they stayed on her. Joachim coughed slightly and stepped to stand somewhat in front of Hanala. He knew Hanala could protect herself, but this was just in case.

"Hanala, this is Joachim Peiper," he introduced his old school _'chum'_ to the quarian.

Hanala nodded stiffly. She did not want to speak to him. Joachim could not blame her in the slightest, especially when Peiper arched his brow at the quarian, staring amusedly at the younger woman. It was bordering on menacing in Joachim's opinion, like he did not want anything to do with the woman sitting on the edge of Hoch's bed.

"This must be the _alien_ that has gotten you in some much trouble," he breathed his tone a low mocking taunt. "I heard she did that to you."

He gestured to his arm. Although covered up by his jacket, it was obvious what he was referring to. Hanala squirmed unpleasantly, looking torn between defending her and pulling up her rifle to shoot Peiper dead right there and then.

"That doesn't concern you, Joachim," Hoch warned the older man, earning a raise of an eyebrow. "I think it's best if we discuss the conduct of the Kampfgruppe. Take a seat."

Peiper did no such thing. Inwardly fuming, Hoch ignored the sleight.

"Most of the infantry are formerly of the 6th Army out in Stalingrad. They're tired and worn out. They will be pushed, but we will not push them like we did to our Waffen-SS units."

Peiper held up his hand.

"I received this lecture from Guderian and Rommel. I don't need it from you," he snapped at Hoch. "We are the same rank; I trust you will not forget that."

Hoch narrowed his eyes. What was this now, a pissing contest?

"No I won't. If I had it my way, I wouldn't be in command, let alone have you with me," Hoch reassured Peiper. "If you know where Rommel is, I will speak to him about it."

Peiper stared at him for a good long moment before he finally inclined his head

"I see..." the Obersturmbannführer lulled. "I'll go gather the men. It is your duty to address them. Might I suggest you leave these private affairs for the time being and go inspect your equipment? Kampfgruppe Hoch's armour has been stationed in Ariana, a district in the city. That is where you will find Rommel and Guderian. Just be back here by 4pm."

With that said, Peiper departed, leaving Joachim and Hanala focused back on the new duties handed to him. Yes, the two of them would have to cut down on their personal time.

"Keelah, what an asshole..." Hanala spoke finally, breaking her long lasting silence. "Why is it that men named Joachim are such assholes, Joachim?"

Hoch rounded back on Hanala and tackled her back onto the bed.

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

438th Mechanized Infantry, Kampfgruppe ' _Hoch'_ was by far the biggest unit he had ever found himself commanding. So much power, he might have been the rank to control a Kampfgruppe, but since his promotion he hadn't been in control of men in a conflict zone.

Joachim had done the count. With seven infantry companies which included two veteran Afrika Korps companies, totalling eleven hundred men, twenty Hanomag half-tracks, four Leichter Panzerspähwagen scout cars, thirty Opel Blitz supply/transportation trucks. Twelve of the new Panzer V Panthers, eighteen Panzer IV auf H's, Five Panzer III auf J's, three obsolete Panzer II's, six Marder III light tank destroyers, five SdKfz 233 Armoured cars, twelve StuG's III assault guns, four of those Panzerkampfwagon VI Tiger's (five if one included Hertzer's beaten up Sigrid) and the support staffed needed to keep the men armed, fed, healthy and the armour repaired.

With just over sixteen-hundred men suddenly thrust into his lap. Hoch had to question why Guderian and Rommel would think it wise to give him that command. He wasn't ready for that sort of responsibility, he didn't want that responsibility. He would take Mann and his friends, Fuhrmann and his squad, and Hertzer and his tank, but he never signed on for that large a command!

It felt wrong, being placed with so many lives. Not to mention he wasn't trained to lead Heer troops. They were trained entirely different than Waffen-SS men. Would they even respect his authority? Heer and Waffen-SS command structure was different and there had been well noted dissension between the services, especially in the early days of the war. He hadn't even factored in what sort of condition most of is infantry were in. They had only recently gotten out of Stalingrad and Rostov and now they were assigned to fight here? They must have been worn out and demoralized.

This had to be a punishment, for what crime exactly Joachim wasn't yet sure. Stepping past the guard and entering the command center, he found it vacate with exception to the two Commanders he had wanted an audience from. Hoch came to attention with a click of his boots together.

Joachim cleared his throat.

"Herr Generalfeldmarschall, Herr Generaloberst. I apologize for the disruption, but may I have a moment of your time?"

Looking up from their map, Generalfeldmarschall Rommel and Generaloberst Guderian turned their sharp eyes onto the younger junior officer. Wiping his bald head with a handkerchief, Guderian gestured Hoch into the tent. Hoch obliged, and approached the men, coming to an attention and saluted, which wasn't returned. Hoch turned and focused onto Rommel, who was inspecting him carefully.

"Herr Generalfeldmarschall, I was under the impression since our last encounter, we had created some sort of understanding; that you would not keep the truth from me," Hoch spoke before asking permission. "Why am I being placed in command of a Kampfgruppe? Without there even being as much as a warning."

The two older soldiers looked each other. Both of them looked somewhat amused by Joachim's bold words.

"I have no need for another adjutant," Guderian addressed Hoch, stepping forward. He was sweating badly, he hadn't acclimatized yet. "The Anglo-American task force was twice the force projection we had originally estimated. I need good officers in the field, so I read your record. You moved fast across France and the Low Countries, spent several months in Yugoslavia and Russia. You will be adequate for what I need in a field commander."

Though he might have been put off by conflict, Joachim could not help but puff his chest out at the rare compliment offered by the father of the combined arms doctrine.

"With Montgomery on the other side of Suez, building up, the English have also mobilized the 1st Airborne Division which has jumped in with American paratrooper regiments 82nd. The English Paratroopers have already liberated Casablanca and are holding the port for the invasion fleet while the Americans have taken two airfields at Tafraoui and La Sénia."

Hoch blinked. He had not heard much from the invaded sections. He did not think it would be that bad.

"It is not all bad news so far," Rommel spoke as he gestured to the markings surrounding Algiers. "The American 34th as well as the British 78th Infantry Division has been pinned down by the Vichy French, supported by the French eastern front veterans, who have crushed an attempted rebellion by Resistance fighters. Admiral Darlan was in Algiers but he has since been flown back to Vichy. 5 Infantry Division Cosseria, 136 Infantry Division Giovani Fascisti and the 133 Armoured Division Littorio is on the way to support the push back. That is where you will head first."

Joachim raised an eyebrow. They had sent in the Italians? From the amount of units they had sent in before them it appeared Rommel held little faith in the Italians and French in holding the invaders at bay. Or it had been at the insistence of Il Duce, who had reorganized the Italian frontier soldiers after the disaster that lead to Rommel's involvement in North Africa in the first place. Since Rommel's astounding work conquering Egypt on this side of the Suez, the Italian spirits were high once more.

Now... if they could only perform this well in Russia as well...

"The Vichy French have since retreated into the heart of Algiers; they are digging in and preparing for our counteroffensive," Rommel tacked on, as Hoch joined the Desert Fox, his hand falling on the map. "If there is one thing I'm happy about having what amounts to an off shoot of the Waffen-SS in this theatre, it is how they have intimidated their countrymen into not surrendering to the Free French and the rest of their allies. The French volunteers are terrified to lose this war. They have nowhere to hide when it's over."

Accepting the glass of captured English Sherry from Guderian, they clicked glasses and drank. Downing his drink, he turned back to Rommel, who stared at the younger man very wearily. He appeared to have been reading the SS officer, looking for any display of weakness or arrogance. Rommel took a seat, accepting a glass of water from one of his assistants.

"You will take your Kampfgruppe and lead Guderian's advance westward. Meet up with the Italians and what is left of the French and drive the Americans back into the sea," Rommel continued. "I will follow in a few days once I organize the eastern front's defense.

He paused, staring thoughtfully to him.

"I don't like this, Hoch," Rommel admitted finally. "You seem like a decent enough young man, but placing Heer men into your hands leaves me somewhat concerned. They don't follow your ideology quite so closely."

Hoch, much to his own credit, kept his cool.

"I had two hundred of my men killed when your pal Walther Model used 2nd SS Panzer as cannon fodder outside of Moscow," Joachim returned, keeping his voice from quivering. "I will do what I can in order to not repeat that."

Standing up and buttoning his jacket back up properly, Rommel nodded at the dead sincere tone resent in the junior officer's voice. He did not seem convinced, but he wasn't completely cold about it either. Slowly, the Generalfeldmarschall nodded his head and reached out, offering his hand.

"Very good," he said, glancing to Guderian and finding him pouring himself another drink. Rommel turned back to Hoch.

He looked almost bemused, like he needed help.

"In the meantime you can teach me what you may know about quarians. I believe I might have caused some distress in Admiral Falan."

 **...**

* * *

 **...**

Joachim checked his watch. Four in the afternoon, why in the hell did he feel like he was going to throw up?

Joachim glanced up and looked at Hanala in the eye. She smiled at him, her expression one of pride. She had never seen him in this light before. Sure, he might have commanded the facility security in Austria, but this was different. This was him in an actual command position. Leading over a thousand men against the enemy, she seemed to understand his predicament. Once shit hit the fan, she would end up partially in control of her entire race…

Joachim stood up, as did Hanala, her hand still latched to his. She leaned inwards to kiss his cheek.

"I'll come out in a bit," she breathed, dropping his hand to his side. "Good luck Joachim."

Joachim nodded, pulling his cap back over his head. He exhaled sharply and turned away, stiffening his walk to a brisk pace. He pushed himself from out of the tent and back into the hastily step up parade grounds. There gathered there were his men, standing at a state of ease. At least they had been until Peiper, standing at the front of the grounds and Hoch locked their eyes.

" _ **ATTENTION**_!" Peiper roared out as Hoch made his presence known to his Kampfgruppe. Simultaneously sixteen hundred and fifty three men came to attention.

To say it put Hoch on the spot was understating it. Regardless, he plucked up his courage and stepped through the gathering. His expression remained impassive as he awkwardly attempted to perform his very first inspection of the troops, something he had happened to him often in the early days, but now being the inspector, it left him feeling like he was doing it wrong.

Chuckling nervously as he reached Leutnant Mann, Hoch quickened his pace and stepped up to the podium, saluting the fellow Waffen-SS officer. Staring hard at Joachim, Peiper turned away and stepped off the podium. Hoch looked at it wearily for a few seconds before stepping on up. Now overlooking his new men gathered before him. Not liking the glorified stool he stood on, Hoch stepped off it.

"Please ignore my executive officer's order. Everyone take a seat and relax," Hoch spoke loudly as he stepped in front of the gathering. "I do not need to be impressed by form, only that you can fight. The majority of you, I know you can. Drill in Tunis… well, it's somewhat unnecessary."

Listening to the gathering men chuckle at his words, He stayed silent as he waited for his men to take a seat in the sand, relaxing as they were ordered to do by Joachim. From the corner of his eye he could see Peiper scowling at the passive aggressive blow Joachim made against him. Shamelessly undermining his authority publicly; it reminded the fighting men that he was the one in charge and not Peiper.

"As your commanding officer, you will find me to be blunt and I will undoubtedly drive you to your limits. I will be asking sacrifice from you, but do not think for a second that what I ask out of you is not what I would ask out of myself," Joachim informed the gathering. "With an exception to meeting our Generals when necessary I will not behind the lines. I will carry a rifle, maps and a radio. I will be fighting right alongside you. I know that this is a foreign concept to the Heer, but that is one of the Waffen-SS's few endearing qualities. Ranks are but responsibility issued to certain men. I am no better than you."

There was a low rumbling amongst the majority of the men. To have their leader pick up a rifle and join in the fight was unheard of. Joachim had to admit that such a thing was rare even in the Waffen-SS. By the why Joachim Peiper was staring at him, he seemed to have had the exact same thought. Regardless, it appeared to have worked to get the trust of the gathering.

"As such, I will not spew the jingoism our leaders and propagandists back home spill to us. You come to me as exhausted men, war weary men. So I shall afford you the truth, as you paid for with blood," Joachim continued. "The truth of the matter is that this war will no longer be a war of advancement. Not this year, maybe not next year. We shall dig our heels into the soil we have conquered and pray that the enemy gets exhausted before we do."

"You came from the horrors of the east, as I and my executive officer, Joachim Peiper have personally witnessed. To have you now fighting in the west, may think it will afford you the foolish notion that this front is the sideshow. It is not," he pressed on, warning them all. "This is the first step that a coalition of nations supplied by factories running untouched by war, working night and day. They will be better equipped, they will have more air support and they will have millions of fresh troops ready to pour into this front. This may just be desert, but it is a first step to reaching Italy, then a long march north into the Fatherland."

Joachim paused, biting his lip briefly before he added.

"Unless we stop them here, while the Americans are inexperienced and the British and the Dominion near collapse, we will not stop them until they are inside our borders. That is the cold hard truth."

Silence greeted him as he stopped speaking. They looked up at him as though he had declared the war lost already. Joachim stared off, searching their faces. From Mann's silent shock to Fuhrmann who, like many of the young, did not seem able to comprehend such a thing. Further back he could see Hanala, he could make out an expression of sympathy for him. She knew the facts before he did.

Next to him, he could see Peiper stiffen up. The fellow Obersturmbannführer gestured his head to the side. Following his gaze, he found Generalfeldmarschall Rommel standing there, silently watching and waiting for a continuation.

Exhaling and suddenly feeling the pressure, he turned back to his Kampfgruppe.

"This war... I am sick of it... Just as I imagine many of you must be," Joachim spoke up once again. "There was a time when I relished in this conflict, when I fought for an ideology. That is all over, yet the war remains, and it is going to get worse for us if we remain idle. So, I will continue to fight, but I shall instead fight for the Fatherland's survival. If you are not enthusiastic about the cause we serve, then instead fight for your loved ones, fight for your nation, and most importantly, fight for your Kameraden."

Though spoke with no intention to incite some sort of fervour, it happened regardless. One by one the men of the 468th Mechanized Infantry Kampfgruppe stood up from their seats in the sand and dirt and cheered him on enthusiastically. It seemed that for the first time a commander had reaffirmed what the war taught them. That ultimately they fought for one another.

Unable to do anything other than grin, Hoch pressed on, more enthusiastically than before.

"Tomorrow we head east to reinforce the Italians and our French allies in Algeria, where they have admirably halted the advance without our aid. We will be the tipping point and then we storm off to Morocco, So get some rest, eat and drink. Get acclimatized and be ready to show our adversaries what the veterans of the east will do to the virgins of the west."

The cheering turned into roars of agreement. Deciding nothing more had to be said; Hoch offered them all a Heer salute and stepped off the stage, followed by the somewhat annoyed Peiper. The two men came to attention as Generalfeldmarschall Rommel headed their way, his baton held at each end. He seemed somewhat bemused. He had not expected the truth from the likes of Hoch.

"Bold words for the men," the leader of Army Group Afrika mused. "Guderian and I will be expecting more than bravado, however. Please, Herr Hoch, do not fail my expectations."

Joachim nodded, agreeing the Generalfeldmarschall sentiment. With that Rommel tipped his baton to his hat and left, leaving Peiper and Hoch standing alone and wondering how many of the men standing in front to of him would be dead or maimed in a weeks' time.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

 **Changes: clean up (of course) Deleted an American GI scene. I got a lot of requests to show the war from the perspective of the Allies, and I always felt they made the stories bloated and distractions away from the primary story. I will collect these bits and up them in the anthology series as deleted scenes and all that.**


	12. January 14th, 1943

**Chapter Twelve: January 14th, 1943**

 **…**

The port city of Bougie, French Algeria was surprisingly picturesque.

To think that he actually thought the deployment to Algeria would be a gruelling trek involving him storming all his men and equipment across the border. He must have been in a daze.

With Malta smashed and under Italian occupation, Gibraltar stretched to its very limits protecting the invasion taskforce and the renewed paranoia cause by the Spanish after committing an apparent military build-up near the island and the remnants of the Vichy French Fleet and the bulk of the Regia Marina delivering hit and run attacks against the Royal Navy and the island. The moment they were spotted they would bolt to the safety of friendly waters where U-boats and air cover awaited any ship or taskforce foolish enough to give chase and cross into enemy waters.

These threats were feints at best to a cynical German such as himself. The Spanish would not dare commit to serious action against the military fortress, just as the Italian and French navy navies would not engage in an outright naval engagement with the Royal Navy and now the Americans. The last thing the Civil War ravaged Spain needed was tides of Allied bombers crossing the channel to terror bomb the shit out them as well.

Still, these distractions worked to an extent. It meant that their small flotilla of cargo ships delivered his Kampfgruppe without so much as an air attack.

Moving between columns of his infantry wordlessly, he checked their kits. Most of them had been issued MP-43's. A couple still had bolt action rifles, but they were few and far between, all of them sharing a common trait. They were designated Jäger's. They were men who were trained not to wage blitzkrieg, or hold lines but to hunt and kill the enemy.

Pausing as he reached Leutnant Mann's platoon, the men new to Mann's command and unaware of the friendship built in the old days by the two of them froze and came to attention. Hoch saluted them all. He nodded to Mann briefly before turning his attention to the platoon sniper, Johann Oster, who was distant and cool. Not so much because that was how snipers had to be, he was still grieving for the Fuhrmann's kid brother. Hoch gestured to the MP-43 assault rifle in his hand, fitted with a telescopic sight.

"This was at the suggestion of your adviser, Herr Obersturmbannführer," was Oster's explanation as to why he held a modified rifle in his hands. He did not seem too enthused with the source of his advice.

Joachim grinned slightly. Hanala. He should have known that tricky woman was always up for teaching others new exciting ways to kill. He would not be surprised in the slightest if she fitted the MG-42 with a scope and thermal vision like the goggles built by the regretfully deceased Galas'Yoad.

Before he could reply, his ears caught the horrific tone of a sputtering mechanical seize up, a violent screeching grinding, then the shouts of rage that followed suit. Slapping Mann on the shoulder, Hoch headed towards the source. There sat one of the Tigers, its back end hood was pried open with smoke pouring from the huge Maybach HL230 P45 V-12 engine. Gathered around the tank was the crew, all of them shouting furiously over top of the many vehicles getting off the ship. One of his new Panthers came to a halt, the crew climbing out to give the Tiger Panzer crew a hand.

Pushing in between the gap of a Panzer IV and a STuG, Joachim stormed to see what in the hell had just happened.

 _ **"What's going on back there!?"**_

The Tiger commander pulled his head out of the out of the engine compartment and jumped off the Heavy tank, standing at attention on behalf of both his crew and the Panther. The Commander glanced briefly over Hoch's shoulder. Hoch turned as well to find Joachim Peiper approaching them.

"Herr Oberstleutnant… I mean, Obersturmbannführer," the Commander quickly corrected the moment a flash of annoyance cross his Commander's face "The engine seized up. It's happened before, since we took a near catastrophic rear hit from a 17 pounder the British fired at us when we were conquering Cairo. We need a few hours to patch it. If it is possible I would like a few extra hours on top of that to pull the engine out and inspect it properly."

Joachim inwardly scowled. A day at sea and the first thing that happens the moment they land one of his tanks suffers serious engine failure. He knew that he would be using battle exhausted equipment; by God this was bloody embarrassing. Not so much because he stood in front of his new subordinate officers, it was due to the civilians gathered around the port, watching. Mostly of Algerian descent, but he could see a few white men amongst them. French probably…. No, the French colonists knew better than to spit publicly at German presence. They were British expatriates most likely. They were a delightful group of contemptible cowards who did not have the spine to return to their homeland and fight.

 _"Look at that, Jerry can't even get his tanks of the dock! These are the boogeyman haunting us?! Our boys are going to trash them!"_

The crowd broke into wild cheers. Joachim locked eyes on the agitator. A red head older man, potbellied, his hair was thinning. If Gerald Langer was here, he would have had something witty to say. He hated the English with a burning passion that on occasion would borderline on either psychopathic to absolutely hilarious.

Hoch, on the other hand, lacked the charming anger held by the Great War veteran. He also lacked his extensive patience. Red in the face with embarrassment, Joachim clambered up onto the heavy tank. Throwing off his cap, he reached into his holster, pulling his Walther P38 out; he took aim just over the jeering Englishman's head and fired a round at them. The crowd, suddenly remembering that the only men armed were the ones being jeered at, roared and screamed, scattering like seagulls.

The action even left the Kampfgruppe staring widely at the angered Obersturmbannführer. Holstering his pistol and taking the bullhorn being offered to him by Peiper, Joachim decided against addressing. All he knew for certain was that had he been in this situation occurred between 1939 to 1942, he would have aimed a few centimetres lower. He was not above splattering what little brains the Englishman had.

 _ **"Take two other Tigers, some ship cable and tow the tank out of the docking bay and into the city. The rest of the Tiger detachment will follow suit. All of you will inspect your tanks, perform what repairs are needed and reunite with the Kampfgruppe!"**_ Hoch ordered through the sound amplifier. _**"I want the rest of the armour and men gathered on the western face of the city. We move out in three hours. I want the infantry traveling on armour or on foot. The Opal trucks will stay here until I go to the local Magistrate and see if they will kindly part with any fuel rations they can spare. Company Commanders will assist me."**_

Earning a collection of _'Jawols_!' from his men, Hoch jumped off the Tiger and joined Peiper who, for the first time in his recollection, wore a genuine looking smile.

"Hoch, I may not like you, but I have to give credit where credit is due," Peiper reflected thoughtfully. "That was impressive."

Joachim could not help it, he grinned back at the bastard.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

The Magistrate of Bougie had turned out to be a difficult man to deal with.

Face value, he was a part of the Vichy Regime and therefore, unofficially obliged to answer to any German commander who made a request to utilize his resources. However, every instinct in Hoch told him the man was, in all likelihood a shill to the allied nations. He would not have any qualms surrendering the port city should god forbid the Allies made it this far. He would issue a report to High Command or directly to Guderian requesting a garrison be set up in the city.

In the end, the old magistrate caved. All it required was his tailored intimidation to do the trick. With the permission granted he, his company commanders, Mann, who tagged along to take a look into gathering medical supplied and his supply troops were on their way gathering what petrol and diesel they could squeeze from local businesses. They did not have a whole lot, but it all would help.

There had been some unfortunate disagreement that Joachim had discovered. Apparently the annexation order he issued had caused some tension. It was an action that the Eastern front veterans had no problem partaking in. They were men who not a month ago had been for to plunder and steal in order to survive. It was his company commanders whom had spent the war in the desert that took issue with it, Hauptmann's Brenner, Gradl and Kleinmann.

They were a loud minority in his makeshift unit. They were men who very much looked down on the new arrivals to their theatres. Already he had caught Brenner calling the survivors of Stalingrad _"thieves and murderers"._ Unlike their tired men, these three men were less than pleased with their Kampfgruppe commander. These three appeared to be delusional after drinking Rommel's doctrine of War without hate. They were three men probably seeking glory without realizing how dirty this war had become. To have the reality of the conflict which involved having to borrow fuel rations from civilians must have made them bitter.

With every significant privately held fuel supply dealt, Joachim had decided he and his officers had earned a drink. He would even pay for it. Though he felt it justifiable to snatch the petrol, alcohol was something he would buy, which led them to an inn they were gathered outside of _The Rising Hart_. It was a quaint looking pub that incorporated medieval English and Arabic together.

Hoch had entered the bar first, his hand falling on his pistol belt as he scanned the patrons. The conversations fell dead silent as he stood there. Somewhere in the corner he could hear sobbing, a woman who could not believe the day had finally come that Germans were occupying their city, no matter how short a time frame it might have been.

It made him feel like shit. Were they really that monstrous?

The pub was silent except for the sound of his boots slamming against the wood floor. Behind him came the rest of his cadre of officers. All of them turning their heads and inspecting the patrons as carefully as he had been.

Joachim stopped in front of the bar. His eyes turned from the bartender, a portly middle aged man with his skin pink as though he had no ability to adapt to the sun. He instead focused on the vast variety of spirits behind him.

"Vat 69. Thank you," Joachim requested finally, his hand digging into his pocket for his wallet.

"My name is Ernie," The man introduced himself, speaking in piggish German.

Hoch raised his eyebrow.

"I don't care for introductions," Joachim replied.

"I own this place. As such; this establishment prides itself on inclusion of all creeds and colours; however we have a strict policy on not allowing dogs or Germans inside… and dogs we can make the occasional exception for," the barkeep said, switching back to English, gesturing to the door. "I mean no personal offense. My sincerest apologies for wasting your time; but kindly disperse from this premise and take the rest of your piggy eyed, cabbage eating goons with you."

Hoch's eyes narrowed at the middle aged man who had insulted a dozen or so officers in their prime. The rest of his men seemed unaware. Slowly, Joachim broke into a mild threatening glare; he shook his head and turned away. He had to hand it to the old man. He had nerves and it had impressed him.

"What did he say, Herr Hoch?" Hauptmann Brenner inquired.

Hoch glare reformed into a frown, between his quarian built translation device and his mother actually teaching him English as a boy he knew exactly what this middle aged island monkey had said to them. Turning back finally, Hoch continued to stare at the middle aged man impassively. Perhaps he would let this slide. It was his bar, and the drinks were a bit of an indulgence.

"I don't know," Hoch finally responded.

"Bullshit, Hoch," Mann spoke suddenly. "Your Mother taught you English. Remember when we use to taunt the English tourists?"

The officers shared a look at each other for the admission made by Mann. Hoch inwardly groaned.

It was like being a teenager again. Mann, knowing full well that his parents would whip him if he acted like a little shit, would egg Hoch into doing things that were less than moral. Not having parents that were either alive or respected had led to him doing all sorts of foul things in their youth up until Langer came along and literally knocked some sense into him. Now here he was once more, leader of a pack of young officers, all of them looking at him as though he was supposed to stand as a defender against the insult.

"I'm afraid we have a misunderstanding," Hoch spoke, his tongue rolling over the unnatural feeling of speaking English. "However, we're here as patrons. I realize that the invasion has made you brave, but you hardly deserve to act that way. You spent three or so years betraying your country by being here."

Pausing briefly, he dug into his pocket to collect his gold cigarette case. The man must have thought that it was something else. He just about recoiled; concerned that Hoch would draw a gun on him.

"Perhaps you will see the Americans and your countrymen in your bar enjoying your warm hospitality," Joachim pressed on in between inhaling his first drag of his cigarette. "But that day is not today; so since that day has not arrived and I stand here instead, why don't you run along fat little service monkey and get us our fucking drinks. Thank you very much."

The Englishman's spine held up.

"You have a very good aptitude for English, son. I served the King, you know," Ernie spoke, his hands pressing on the bar. "Fought in the first war, I did. I came here before you blights started your revenge war, noble fight stopping you last time, even more stopping you and your madman Fuhrer this time around."

Again, Joachim raised his brow, his expression blank.

"You were in the first war?" Hoch repeated. "So were my Father and my three brothers. All of them dead at English hands, Father by the French. One was 16, just a baby. I suppose they were Huns right?"

The man did not reply. He did however look bothered by that fact.

"Tell me… did your grand, noble cause condone choking a 16 year old to death with poison gas?" Hoch pressed on, his stoic expression forming an unnatural smile. "It was the same gas cloud that killed my other brother... They brought them home to my parents, you know? The coffins had to remain closed because of the blisters and sores that it caused."

Hoch didn't know why he was asking this. Perhaps it was because he had never met a war veteran who had fought on the other side of the war. Perhaps he was the embodiment of why Joachim was the man he was today. If his brothers hadn't been all killed then perhaps his parents would have been better than they were. Joachim would never have found Langer, Langer would never have dragged him into the SS. He would not have been a part of a regime that was killing MILLIONS.

"Both sides should never have done that…" Ernie the vet spoke his voice low and said. "I'm sorry the boy had to die in such a ghastly way. I'm sorry your family died there."

"Were they Huns?" Hoch demanded to know, shrugging off the sympathy.

The old soldier shook his head.

"No… no, that's what the propaganda told the old men and women back home," the old server returned, unfazed by Hoch's hard glare. "Back then the German soldier was feared, but he had principals, he conquered but he did not humiliate. He ruled but he did not destroy everything in his wake. When he destroyed, he did not round up and exterminate."

The expression of empathy vanished. Replacing it was the old hatred that was held in his English heart.

"Now look at you all, fanatics and monsters," he murmured. "The propagandist were right to call your people Huns, they were just twenty years early."

With that, the pity vanished in Joachim. He pulled back and pulled on his mask of superiority once again.

"Venture any further west and I imagine you will die," Ernie warned him. Joachim shook his head.

"Death is the last thing I have control over, so why should I feed a fear for it?" Joachim flat out lied in his face, "I'm done with this, so I'm offering you a choice. We can be paying customers, or we can be a conquering menace you think we are. It is up to you to choose how we proceed from here."

The Englishman went dead cold, Hoch's words bit into his defiance. He was a man who knew that this was no longer a joust between two men from different Ideologies. Joachim was the man with the gun and Ernie was not. He would defer to the German, at least for the time being. Ernie turned away briefly and pulled the bottle of Vat 69 off the shelf and pressed it on the table before the silent younger man.

" _Mechanized barbarians…_ " Ernie snorted. "The Prime Minister was right about you."

As if fate had been listening and decided to throw in an ironic twist, a gunshot rang out from behind Hoch as he went for his wallet. The shot pumped a hole through Ernie the barkeep's chest. The old man dropped to the floor. The servers and patrons screamed, a few of them bolted past the Germans and fell to the proprietors' side, trying to stop the bleeding in vain.

The group of Germans stood together motionless watching the death unfold before their eye. He had no chance to be saved, His heart had been blown open in all likelihood.

Hoch rounded back and found Major Wilhelm Gantz standing there, his Walther P38 still smoking as he kept it trained on the old barkeep. One of the men who escaped Stalingrad, he was shaking and wide eyed. His temper was lost. Hoch could not believe this, these men hadn't had any psychological recovery time and here he was handed a thousand of them to watch over!?

Gantz stepped forward, looking down at the dying man, his eyes still wide.

 _"I know English as well. You should have watched your tongue,"_ Gantz spoke, his dialect near perfect English to the dead man. _"Now look at you old man..."_

Hoch turned back and lashed out, his hand batting the pistol to the floor. His right hand forming a fist which he slammed into the Major Gant's cheek, dropping him to the ground, Joachim followed suit. Falling to his knee, the Obersturmbannführer continued to strike the Major in front of the men. He reached out and grabbed the Major by his jacket, slamming his head against the imported plywood floor violently

 _ **"YOU BASTARD, YOU COMPLETE AND UTTER BASTARD, THIS DID NOT HAVE TO HAPPEN!"**_ Joachim screamed at the top of his lungs as he continued to hit the man.

Before he knew it, Mann reached down and pulled Hoch off Gantz. Hoch struggled, wrenching the arms off his waist; he shoved Mann back into the officers. Hoch was breathing violently. His eyes darted over Gantz as he struggled to get up.

 _"W-with all due respect, Herr Obersturmbannführer; s-shootin' over their heads or kin…kind words isn't going to resonate with these idiots,"_ Gantz spit out in between mouthfuls of blood. _"Russian or English, the only thing they understand is forc-"_

Hoch had no time for this bloody bastard. He tugged his own Walther out of his belt holster and shot the Major cold between the eyes.

"Thank you for the advice, Major," Hoch mused, his tone devoid of emotion as he tucked his pistol away. Exhaling, he turned to Brenner, who looked absolutely terrified. Slowly he added. "I need a new major. Brenner, you have it if you want it," turning away, he turned to his stunned friend, Mann, adding. "Mann, prepare for a promotion."

Hoch turned away from the two newly promoted men and back to the rest of his men. It was hard to believe the first casualty of the Kampfgruppe was at the hands of their commanding officer. Joachim exhaled, his eyes glared directly at the men who were traumatized by Stalingrad. Joachim turned away briefly to light himself another cigarette. He left a hand full of Reichsmarks as he collected the bottle of Vats, his ears trying their best to shut off the noise of crying for Ernie.

"If any of you officers order or commit an execution of another man woman or child without my expressed approval, prepare to stand in front of a firing line as well," Hoch warned his men finally as he exhaled. "You have my word I'll do it, your example is lying on the floor… now collect that dead idiot and load him in the truck."

With nothing left to say, Joachim pushed through them, pressing the bottle of Vat 69 into Mann's hands as he left them to clean up the mess.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

 _"Everything will change soon, will it?"_

Hanala looked up from her datapad and found the woman that Joachim's friend had dragged along with them. She looked absolutely miserable from up close. Her face stern and exhausted to the point where she looked older than she should have been. She reminded her of Grandmother or at least her Mother's description of Grandmother when she was a younger woman.

She had fought in the last stand of M'aartaz. M'aartaz had once been the last free spaceports on Rannoch which shuttled her people off the planet. She had to fight the encroaching geth bastards and watched helplessly as they abandoned millions as they were forced to flee. Between that and losing Grandfather, Grandmother was never the same after that.

Deciding it was best to make nice instead of antagonize her like Joachim had been doing to her, Hanala set down her notes and leaned into her seat. She turned her focus properly on the woman who had asked the question. A woman who looked torn between wonder and fear as she was now coming to term with the fact that the galaxy wasn't just built for humanity.

Slowly, Hanala nodded her head.

"Yes. Soon everything will change very soon," she agreed with the human woman. "What is your name?"

The woman flinched slightly, as though Hanala had been gearing up to hit her or something like that. This was the fear she had been expecting for the first time since she landed on Earth, a human had shown their concern about her being there. Well… Fuhrmann as well; but Fuhrmann and her were no longer on speaking terms anymore something about her being a complete bitch to his wife. Fuhrmann had apparently grown a spine.

"Tatiyana Andrusiv," was the woman's response. Hanala allowed a slight smile at the introduction.

"Pretty name, my name is Hanala or Hana if you want," Hanala said, feeling somewhat awkward at the introduction. Shifting in her seat she added. "You are from the east? Joachim says you're from the Ukraine SSR."

Tatiyana frowned slightly as soon as Joachim was mentioned. It was a curious reaction.

"Just Ukraine one day soon perhaps," The woman spoke up. "From Odessa, I am sure you do not know of it. Your friend has probably told you everyone east of Prussia is weak and feeble."

Hanala frowned. Yes, it was the case. Joachim still appeared to harbour great hatred for the east. Tatiyana knew all too well it seemed. German liberators turned out to be conquerors.

"Yes, he has," she admitted. "You don't like him? It's understandable if you don't."

It was meant to be humorous, but the woman looked like she hadn't shared a joke with anyone in her entire life.

"He's... difficult to understand..." Tatiyana completed understated, sounding worried to anger the alien. "He calls me an animal and then he helps me. I don't understand him. I don't understand how you deal with him. You are not local and you certainly don't fit in his ideology. His type, his circle, to them we are all cattle."

Hanala inwardly flinched at the phrase. Joachim had used that term to describe the indescribable horror at the Polish train station. Men, women and children packed up in boxcars, shipped off to the camps, Father had said existed without so much as a fight. Like animals, just like animals.

Hanala swallowed the lump in her throat and turned back to Tatiyana. She tried to hide her haunted expression with a smile for the skeleton thin, nearly lifeless looking woman whose eyes were burning into her.

"Trust me. He's a far lot better about it then he was a year ago," Hanala informed Tatiyana. She paused, smirking as she added. "If it makes you feel any better, I stabbed him when we first met."

The empty expression on Tatiyana's face almost cracked into a ghost of smile. She seemed to like the thought of Joachim in pain. She couldn't blame her. On occasion it was humorous to watch him be taken down a peg.

"Maybe so, perhaps he will be easier to get along with given time. Maybe if I show my worth," the Ukrainian whispered, her voice determined. "He won't be as kind as Christian."

Christian Bohr. Yes, the fair haired Feldwebel that was a member of the squad Mann wanted to save from Stalingrad. He was the one that had brought her along, out of the hell that was Russia and the Ukraine, only to drag her to yet another battlefield. From Hoch's utterance, she had gathered that the two of them were in some sort of personal relationship. It was… It was kind of adorable.

She had watched the two of them interact on the vessel heading to Bougie. It was like Joachim and her on their way to Tripoli a year ago, except Italians were not exploding around them from 20mm cannon fire.

Biting her lip, she tried not to smile as Tatiyana looked somewhat dazed. Perhaps she was thinking of Bohr.

"So... why did you follow this Christian Bohr?" She decided to question her. "I mean, this isn't Russia, but this is a warzone. You have no reason to be here."

Tatiyana shrugged idly.

"I don't have anywhere else to be," she breathed. "Everyone I know is dead."

Before Hanala could respond, the door pried open and a hand grabbed Tatiyana by her shoulder. Before she knew it she was pulled right out of the Opel-Kadett staff car, falling in the sand hard. Replacing her unsurprisingly was Joachim, who was clearly in a state of silent rage at something. He closed the door behind him, not before rolling down the window to stick his head out.

"She will speak to you later. Get lost."

Rolling the window back up and watching as Tatiyana scowled before turning away to find her friend. Joachim turn back to Hanala, his eyes darted across her expression as he took in her faint smile, left by the girl she had only just gotten to know. Joachim frowned and unbuttoned his jacket before he threw his hat on the dashboard of the car. He stretched out into his seat, his machine hand reaching for his water bottle, his human hand quietly slipping over top of hers. Hanala glanced at it. It was shaking hard, the skin on his knuckles broken and bleeding.

Hanala's slight smile stretched out slightly.

"I like her, Joachim," she admitted to the human who was now closing his eyes. "She has a personality. She could even be a friend one day. So be nice to her."

Joachim snorted.

"That doesn't surprise me in the bit. She's essentially you if you lacked bathing abilities," Joachim retorted without looking at her amused expression. "I'm going to rest. Wake me in an hour."

Hanala sighed, still finding it amusing.

"She's tough, independent, she isn't afraid to fight and has seen more horrors Why Joachim _Wilbur_ Hoch, I think you have a crush on her."

That did it. Joachim's eyes flew wide open at the statement. Or perhaps it had been she dared to utter his middle name. Lene Langer had told her after they had a few drinks together. The two of them thought the English name to be the funniest ancestor damned thing a man like Joachim Hoch could be named. The fact that he flew off the handle at the breathing of that name only added to the hilarity.

" _Shut up_ ," Joachim uttered in a low, dangerous whisper.

Hanala was not deterred in the slightest by it. If anything, his blunt anger had served to fuel her prodding even further.

"If we do have a future, I imagine you plan on making her the mother of our human children the manual way," She mused airily, trying to supress the urge to let loose a round of vicious giggling as Joachim shook with indignation. "Those strong Ukrainian genes, I would not mind it."

"Shut up!"

"I should inform this Bohr about your intentions. I would like to see the fight in her honour."

Looking back on it, Hanala really should not have pressed teasing Joachim about Tatiyana.

 **"I am now in command just about two thousand men and in a few short hours we'll be fighting!"** Joachim suddenly roared out in a high pitch, his eyes wide and furious. **"I do** _ **NOT**_ **have to put up with this. I do** _ **NOT**_ **have the time to put up with this. Now once again,** _ **SHUT UP**_ **! Shut up and let me rest,** _ **GODDAMN YOU**_ **!"**

Hanala's smile faltered. Joachim's annoyance wasn't just annoyance. It was anger; anger and something she hadn't expected. It was a crack in his self-confidence. Oh, she knew that he wasn't strong all the time, but he never was willing to show it. Not even to her. He just sort of buried it and pushed his fears behind. What had rattled him this time? Whatever it was, she wasn't going to find out about it until later.

Joachim had an unfortunate new trait since he left the care of the Gestapo. He was a time delayed explosive counting down the second until everything blew up.

"I hate to be the one to remind you, but yes, yes you do have to put up with it," She taunted him softly. "You still answer to me… remember?"

Realizing that the standing order still indeed had said that he answered to her as the handler to an ambassador, Joachim looked close to having an aneurism. He simply groaned and shut his eyes. He slid down his seat and found himself now resting on Hanala's lap. Deciding enough was enough, Hanala fell silently as she ran his her hand through his hair, shaved off in November and was finally starting to grow back.

She smiled to herself. When they went to war, he would not have to worry, she would defer to him. When they got out of North Africa, she would see about getting Joachim some help.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

"I wish I had time to come sooner, but pressing matters have gotten in the way. How is he Doctor?"

"The operation was a complete success. We did have several scares, but he is recovering quickly. It will not be long now before we place him in a rehabilitation program. Learning how to use just one lung might be difficult. Herr Heydrich is as tough a man as he looks."

Heinrich Himmler nodded blankly at the words of comfort offered up by Doctor Josef Mengele. His eyes continued to peer through the observation room window at the sleeping form of Reinhard Heydrich, Lina and the children were sitting at his side

He might have had his differences with Heydrich. Heydrich looked down on some of the more private fascinations he held, and yes, the two of them were the bearers off each other's secrets, creating an odd mutually assured destruction if one should turn on the other. But Heydrich respected the younger man immensely; he held an almost brotherly affection for him, which would on occasion make him forget that the General of the Police had gone stir crazy since the assassination attempt. The late Adolf Eichmann and the Fuhrer's favourite SS man, Skorzeny had both reported what he did to the Bohemians

Although somewhat revolted by it, Heydrich was by far preferable to Ernst Kaltenbrunner, whom had proven himself much more clever than the Reichsführer had anticipated. He had assumed his alcoholic binging and whoring around with other women meant that he was a man of low competence, but no. Kaltenbrunner had proven himself time and time again that he wasn't afraid to do the work that Heydrich would occasionally hesitate.

It wasn't just a willingness to do the dirty work of the state. It was appearance as well. Brutal faced and significantly taller than Heydrich even, He did not hold the same sort of respect to the Reichsführer that Heydrich did. There were times when Kaltenbrunner actively baited him. He was supposed to be easy control. It had turned out to be the opposite. He had even caught the hulking Austrian conspiring with a man that Himmler wanted his head of the RSHA never to be seen around. Goebbels.

Joseph Goebbels simply did not understand the background of the SS, to a point where they looked down on them. Goebbels had turned out to be more intelligent than Himmler was willing to grant him. He and Albert Speer had been conspiring as of recently. Having Kaltenbrunner talking to Goebbels and by extension, that total bastard Speer could potentially shift the power balance back to the Party and out of the SS's hand. With Skorzeny as a potential assassin for Kaltenbrunner, It spelled trouble.

For now he would brood. When Heydrich recovered, he would exert his control over the men.

"Thank you Doctor Mengele, it will be a welcomed relief to have Heydrich back in charge of the RSHA in the near future," Himmler returned, "Kaltenbrunner is starting to become a real concern."

Mengele smiled at Himmler crookedly.

"Some men are just not built to handle proper authority," Doctor Mengele said as he offered the Reichsführer a drink. "Heydrich is a noble knight, Kaltenbrunner is a brute policeman. But, here I am discussing things that do not concern to my profession."

Himmler chuckled slightly as Mengele went back to his charts. It was good to see Mengele could see the vast potential of Heydrich. He could even end up the Fuhrer someday, even if the Fuhrer had considered Heydrich an idiot for riding open top in his car in the middle of a region hostile to Germans. Despite this flap, his air of charisma could be worked against others.

"The sound of cheering broke his internal focus. It was Heydrich's children. There, leaned on his side laid Reinhard, his eyes alert and darting about the room, before falling top the source of the noise. His children. With great labour, he reached up and pushed his hand through Lina's hair. The woman, who had spent the better part of the past two weeks in a hospital burst into tears. It made Himmler reluctant to enter the room and to ruin a moment with family.

 _"Lina… Children…"_ Heydrich rasped, he turned his eyes over to the standing Himmler, adding. _"Hein...Heinrich."_

Smiling friendly as Klaus, Heydrich's oldest son grabbed the Reichsführer by his hand and took him closer to his Father. Placing a hand on Lina's shoulder, Himmler leaned over the usually strong patient. Having been placed in a medically induced coma, this sort of alertness caught Himmler and the Heydrich Family off guard.

Lina's expression broke into a wide smile as her hand grasped her wheezing husband.

"Just relax, Reinhard," Himmler soothed the younger man carefully. "You'll be back on your feet soon enough. We have a lot of work to do soon. Just like old times."

Blurry eyed, Heydrich nodded.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

 **Changes: More American material erased.**

 **That should be it for today. Next chapters will be longer and need special attention.**


	13. January 15th, 1943

**Chapter Thirteen: January 15th 1943**

 **...**

 _ **To: 438th Mechanized Infantry Kampfgruppe Commandant, Obersturmbannführer Joachim Hoch**_

 _ **From: Army Group Afrika High Command, Cairo**_

 _Obersturmbannführer Hoch,_

 _Standing orders have changed. Cease your advance to Algiers to support the Italian and French counterattack. At 16:00 hours yesterday, reports have come in that Oran has fallen to the Central Taskforce landed by the Allies in the invasion. This is an unpleasant development, but was not unforeseen. At 18:00 hours the Taskforce commander has ordered a division sized armour group to flank deep into the countryside in an effort to cut the Italian counterattack at Algiers. We have kept an eye on them carefully of course. As of 04:17 have reached the outskirts of Bouïra, an impressive feat even if it had not been unopposed. We believe that the attack will be swinging north, until they reach the coast, as stated before it appears their intentions are to cut the supply lines and force the Italian Army to surrender._

 _You are to take your forces to the westernmost edge of the Aguni Lahwa, two hundred kilometres south of your current position - The area is a plateau region, well suited to dig in, the area is overlooking the town they are resting and refuelling in. From there, you must lure them into an attack. This commander or his higher ups appear not well suited for combat if they are willing to over extend their advance like this. I shall be sending you additional reinforcements in the form of an artillery section as well as 8.8 centimetre flaks guns to bolster your strength against this superior force. Artillery could potentially be the lure, if not then prepare to send a reconnaissance to trick them into following._

 _Whatever the case, your orders are to cause maximum damage as possible and pull back to Bougie. You will assume command of the city, as you suggested to Guderian. This port city must remain in our hands for as long as possible. Protect the port city while Guderian organizes his forces in order to cross the Mediterranean. Meanwhile I shall be marshalling my army by train to Constantine. Guderian will reach Bougie in three days; my force will arrive at Constantine no later than five days._

 _As to not arouse suspicion, I suggest you relay official requests through the traditional method. If there is anything in particular you need, speak to your quarian liaison, or contact me through these omni-tools. I cannot commit much in the way of fighter support to you. The RAF has built up tenfold since they based themselves in Hansa. Most American fighter support appears to not yet show up. Travel fast, travel by night._

 _Good Hunting,_

 _Generalfeldmarschall Erwin Rommel._

Closing his omni-tool, Joachim checked his watch. The time was 08:41. Glancing to Hanala, whose head was buried against the side window. To say that Hanala was a strange woman would be understating it greatly. To be able to sleep so heavily as they sped towards a battle zone. Joachim would not disturb her for the moment.

Sighing as he went for his cigarettes, Joachim reached up and tapped his driver on the arm. The driver obliged the silent order, pulling over. Behind them the Hanomag filled with his personal guard came to a grinding halt. Ignoring Hanala as she stirred, Joachim pulled his gloves back over his hands and stepped out into the dawning sun, allowing a Tiger to roar past him. Joachim would have been impressed by the sight, had he not heard the engine of the heavy tank bloody stutter.

He turned back and wandered to the Hanomag, his driver behind him, an MP-40 in hand. From out of the Hanomag came the driver, Feldwebel Heinrich Fuhrmann. Forgetting his personal relationship with Hoch, Fuhrmann came to attention. It looked rather painful for him to do. It appeared that the injuries he received almost a year ago was still bothering him.

"Feldwebel, get me your signals team. I need a message out to the Kampfgruppe leadership," Hoch called out to the young Feldwebel.

The order issued made Fuhrmann salute and nearly marched to the back of the Hanomag. Joachim frowned. Why hadn't Fuhrmann simply shouted at his men? That was what they were there for. Whatever the case for Fuhrmann's shy command, Fuhrmann came back with the two man signals team, both men coming to attention. Joachim pulled the phone from out of lead signals man's hand.

"This is Hoch," He announced over the radio chatter, silencing them in a second. "We have been relayed new orders from command. Our new heading is southeast, coordinates Latitude 36.466 Longitude 4.235 on your region maps. The Americans have foolishly pushed past their air cover in an effort to relieve Algiers. We will make them pay for it."

Ignoring the collection of _'Jawol Herr Commandant!'_ he received, Joachim handed the phone back to the radio operators; he nodded to Heinrich briefly and stomped through the sand until he reached the car.

As he climbed in, he looked to find Hanala now awake, her fingers fixing her uniform. She appeared unaware that the driver, Rommel's former aid, Leutnant Alfred-Ingemar Berndt keeping his eyes on her in a less than professional nature. Joachim narrowed his eyes. He had apparently known of the quarians for nearly as long as Rommel had.

"Eyes forward Leutnant," Hoch growled as he climbed into the car, slamming the door close behind him. The Leutnant snapped his head back around quickly. Glaring a hole in the back of Berndt's head, Joachim exhaled his cigarette and turned away. He paid faint attention as Hanala's thigh grazed against his. With all the professionalism he could manage, Joachim decided against resting his hand on said quarian thigh.

"And what is happening now, Hoch?" Hanala mumbled, pulling herself back up and taking the cigarette from his lips and inhaling carefully.

"Orders have changed," Joachim grumbled as he leaned into his seat. "Inform your father to pull his thumb out of his ass and get me that air support he promised Rommel."

Opening his latest reports from his men, He did not notice that the tired expression on Hanala's face had contorted into a look of anger. She might have had her issues with her Father in recent months, but Joachim had forgotten the cardinal rule. Insulting Hanala's family without her expressed permission was something she tolerated.

" _Do not_ _ **speak**_ _about my Father with that tone,"_ Hanala suddenly snapped, nearly making Hoch jump in place. "What is it with you these days? Where do you think you have the right to jump down my _fucking_ throat?"

Hearing Hanala use human curse words always sent a shiver up Hoch's spine. It always sounded so venomous, like she was literally spitting out poison at him. It probably also had a lot to do with her gender as well. Joachim had never before known a woman to use such language. He hadn't even heard it used in France. It gave the impression to Joachim that his preconceived notions on a relationship with a woman were not going to happen. She would not be at his beck and call as Lene was to Gerald, nor would she take unprovoked abuse like his Mother did.

No… In her minds eyes, she was in control and, judging from her occasional condescending, he was to be submissive. Well that simply wasn't going to happen. Not if he had a say in it.

"I do not know why I signed onto this..." Berndt spoke sarcastically, cutting through the beginning of the argument. "I was aware of the aliens, I was ready to even serve alongside with them perhaps, What I was not expecting was having to listen to an all but married couple moan and go for each other's throats..."

Hoch scrunched up his lips into a sneer. Hanala looked close to pulling a knife on the Leutnant. For his sake, Hoch decided to spare him from Hanala's rage being directed towards him

"Leutnant, you're dismissed, get in Fuhrmann's Hanomag," he breathed, dismissing the man. Turning back to look at the expression offered by his boss, the Leutnant nodded curtly, leaving the two feuding people in the back seat by themselves.

With him gone, Hoch rounded back at Hanala.

"I have every right to speak ill of your Father. He has caused me nothing but trouble," Joachim snapped back, glaring right back at the quarian woman. "Perhaps if your fleet stopped being so goddamn half-hearted about everything and simply stop the war on their accord and then perhaps I would not have snap at an _Admiral_ who now has the power to stop this war!"

Hanala's thin nostrils flared. Her eyes, shielded by her large aviators narrowed at him. Joachim held his glare. Joachim snorted and turned away, pulling up the door to step out. Most of his formation had turned around by now. It was time to start moving again.

Slamming the door behind him, Hanala pried open her door and climbed out, slamming her door as well.

"You know our reasons, Hoch..." she returned, knowing full well she could not defend them.

Joachim rounded back at her.

"I know them and they are still _fucked_ ," he snapped back.

Before he could climb into the driver seat, Hanala slammed the door shut, her hand gripping his arm as she stared up into his eyes. As angry as she was, she

"Tell me Joachim, how is it going to look if we suddenly drop into orbit, bombard the hell out of something and inform your planet that we are ending this madness rather than give you the chance to do so?" she inquired, her voice growing louder as she lectured him. "We are nearly a totalitarian military dictatorship now; we have to be to survive the exile with our dignity intact. But we are not idiots. We need a first impression to look good. That we come in peace."

Joachim was done buying this tired old line. It was a tired old excuse and she knew it.

"A show of force is the only thing that will impress upon the Earth that you mean business. You give us too much credit as a perfectly rational people," he growled, his lips pulled up into a sneer.

Had it not been for the Hanomag filled with Fuhrmann's platoon watching this unfold from a distance and the armour and trucks passing by them, Hanala would have in all likelihood punched in his nose.

"Listen to you," she hissed. "One moment you're tired of the war, the next, a savage."

Joachim rolled his eyes and turned to get into the car. Hanala reached out and yanked him back towards her. He found himself back underneath of her intense scrutiny. It was odd considering she stood 5'2 to Joachim's 6'4. Though he knew he could probably shout at her in to some sort of submissiveness, he decided not to. Instead all Joachim did was cross his arms.

"I don't think you quite understand what Uplifting does to the psyche of an immature species," Hanala spoke, her voice a forced calm. "It completely shatters the natural progression of the race. It's a direct interference in every aspect of the junior species – technology, societal, political. We have no idea of the fate the race is destined for, whether they should survive or not; it's not much different than injecting a shot of pure adrenaline into the collective species heart and hoping for the best."

Joachim remained silent.

"The one and only race that was uplifted by council hands was the Krogans," she reminded him. "This was a race that multiplied quickly, was naturally aggressive and had harnessed the power of the atom. This species had initiated a nuclear war, twice, before the salarians showed up and approached the krogan as one would a rushed science experiment. They gave the krogans everything at once and showed them an enemy they could fight. It worked. They eradicated the aggressive species."

Hanala paused, her slender hand running over her mouth.

"The problem was, it worked so well, the krogan predictably turned and became aggressive against the rest of the Council races. They demanded just about everything one could ask… considering what they had done, it was not unreasonable… at least at first," she continued. "This tension lasted for three hundred years. In the end, these primitives armed with then modern weaponry turned against the galaxy they had saved. Billions died as the krogans pushed across the galaxy."

Flicking her cigarette out of the car window, she turned back to face Hoch, who stared wearily into her eyes. Briefly they flickered up to Fuhrmann's Hanomag. Sighing, he pushed past her and opened the door of the car. This time she did not stop him. She rounded around the hood and climbed into the seat next to him. Her hand reached out and pulled him to her. She wasn't done yet.

"Can you guess what happened next?" Hanala inquired, her voice much softer than it had been

Joachim did not reply. He honestly did not know.

"What happened is what usually happens when a primitive people with advanced technology go all out against a fully mature and technologically prepared species: Their offensive faltered, it ran out of steam," Hanala pressed on, on leg crossing over the other as she eyed her human wearily. "The turians then fully committed themselves, they simply dug their boots into the metaphorical dirt and pushed back, they smashed through fleets, killed hundreds of millions, probably billions of krogans in the great crusade. When they finally reached the homeworld, the salarians and the turians deployed the Genophage. The turians, with salarian science nearly sterilized an entire race.

"There is a common misconception, that the genophage stopped the war. You think it would have, and under any other circumstances, you would be right. With birt rates cut by 99 percent, all reasonable species would have stopped their war-making, put themselves in check and sued for peace," Hanala continued, her voice soft, echoing a sort of disbelief of her own words. "But the Krogan were too young… too unprepared for compromise. When they realized their birthing had been compromised, they fought harder than ever to find the cure. The war got worse before it finally broke down by superior turian tactical and strategic policies. The krogan could no longer replace their losses, tension mounted inside the Krogan people, it broke and the krogans new enemy was no longer the asari, salarian and turian… _war criminals_ who did this to them. No, instead they went to war against themselves. Over a thousand years later, the krogans have since devolved into shadow of their former selves. They are a broken people, barely cohesive; they struggle in half feral clans or selling themselves to the races that destroyed them for the highest bidder. After saving the galaxy, this is the fate of the krogan."

Hanala unscrewed the lid of her water canister and took a drink. Joachim sat there in a state of stunned silence. They had sterilized an entire race? Good God. Joachim did his best not to think about the implications and just how close it had hit home to him. If they lost this war, could they expect a similar disastrous fate?

"Do you understand what I am trying to say?" Hanala pressed on, gulping down a mouthful of warm water. "The quarian people do not have the luxury of being a leading council species like the salarians. We cannot simply wash our hands if humanity fails like the krogan. If we screw you up, we will be quickly exterminated. Perhaps it will be at the hands of the geth, by the council, or… by you. The geth, as much as I hate them, are not a pressing concern at the moment like the old enemy was to the galaxy an eon ago. We have time, as my Grandmother said. We have time to slowly adapt your race onto _our_ level of technology. Time to teach you about the way the galaxy works, so that we can integrate you the best we possibly can. If we simply shoot our way onto your planet and force the other nations into subservient, we invite a potential disaster. This process must been done with care."

"Most importantly you would want to one up the salarians, right?" Hoch said, biting with dark sarcasm as he dug for his cigarettes "Show them the race they left to die could do a better job taming the savages?"

Hanala froze; she looked as though he had slapped her. Joachim exhaled, both of his hands gripping the steering wheel of the Opel-Kadett staff car. He turned away from her and stared through the window at the men in front of him. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to look in Hanala's direction. She too was staring ahead. It was as though she was too proud to acknowledge that his behaviour was getting to her.

Joachim exhaled. He was acting like a insolent when it did not call for it.

"I do not mean to you the target of my ire, Hanala, I am sorry for being… contentious at every turn," Joachim spoke, breaking the silence he had imposed. "I am not, however, apologizing for telling you what I think of this policy. This war needs to end, and it needs to end now. I recognize your predicament, I acknowledge that there are merits in your point of view, but I cannot support. I will not support it."

Joachim blinked and turned to face the quarian. Hanala followed his lead, and man and woman found themselves looking each other in the eyes.

"This front is virtually pointless. People are dying here, people are going to continue to die here, in a war that doesn't have to continue," he continued, hoping Hanala would understand what he was trying to convey. "All those… _undesirables…_ in those camps, probably dying in droves… they can stop those deaths in a matter of minutes. But they do not. They wait. They know it continues and they have done _nothing_."

Hanala's expression of pointed defiance appeared to give way to an understanding. She turned away, her eyes staring at her lap. Slowly, she nodded her head.

"You're right… we need to do something soon about that… I try not to think about it... but I cannot keep that up for much longer…" she murmured to herself, slowly she looked up to him, adding. "Since when did you start caring about these people?"

Joachim huffed as he lit his cigarette.

"I don't care about them. I want nothing to do with those… cowards…" Hoch muttered as he inhaled his new cigarette, his words feeling hollow no matter how vehemently he expressed them. "However, if they're not willing to stand and fight, then I suppose someone with a spine needs to get that mess cleaned up. When this war is over and their out of those camps, I shall continue to want nothing to do with them."

Ignoring Hanala as she curiously stared at him. He chose instead to start the staff car and turning the wheel as he slowly stamped on the accelerator, he followed the Panther column south to their new orders. Nothing more was said between the two of them. He had to think about what he could do to bloody the American juggernaut's nose. It was better thoughts then the unimaginable horrors they would soon have to handle.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

A sudden weight being dropped into her lap woke Tatiyana Andrusiv from out of her state of semi-slumber. Looking down she found an MG-42 resting in her lap.

Frowning, the woman shifted the weapon to one side. She took in the sight of Christian Bohr bent over; a small crate between his feet had been open as his hands dug through what appeared to be spare parts for something. Perhaps the weapon he used. Tatiyana reached out and touched his shoulder, causing the Feldwebel to look up briefly before returning to the crate.

"What are you doing?" she inquired.

Closing the crate, long tubes now cradled in his hands, Christian pulled him up and offered her a mild smile. Tatiyana simply stared at him curiously, ignoring the faint daring building in the back of her mind. Yes, the thoughts that usually came when strong emotional connections were formed between two people. It had been years, longer since something like this had happened.

It was odd; By all accounts she should not feel something for him. Whether she liked to admit it or not, whether she abhorred it or not, she was still a Soviet. She would still be a Soviet citizen until the Soviet government was willing to officially surrender the Ukraine SSR to the Germans; here she was… now thousands of kilometres away from the Homeland, rolling through North Africa of all places…

Pushing the foreign feelings out of herself, she watched idly as his hand reached over to pull the light machine gun off her.

"You heard Hoch; we're going to be deployed soon," Bohr said. "I need someone to be my machine gun feeder. Think you could be up to the task? I'll teach you to properly operate and maintain the weapon."

Raising an eyebrow at the plan offered by Christian, Tatiyana shifted in place, undoubtedly curiously. Trained to operate this weapon? Would she not just do the hard work for him? Would she get to use it as well? She had already taken several lives during the attack on the Latvians that burnt down Azov. She might as well help fight these Americans as well.

Licking her dry lips, she reached out to tug on Christian's uniform. He looked up from inspecting his new MG-42 and over to Tatiyana.

"Will I be allowed to use it?" she asked, a little louder than she intended on asking him.

Opel truck filled with soldiers laughed at the question. She frowned, she was being serious. She wanted to do something, anything to help. Thankfully the only one not laughing at her was Christian. Instead Christian smiled slightly at the request. Slowly he nodded.

"I suppose once I have the time to teach you to shoot," Christian spoke with a mild grin still. "We have to work like a sniper and a spotter, right Oster?"

Looking up from carefully as oiling his new rifle as he heard his name referenced. Johann Oster looked to the two of them and nodded his head, a ghost of a smile crossing the former Jäger's expression. Tatiyana did not like Oster. She also did not like the man sitting next to the Jäger, Hammer, whose hands were covering his face. He looked like he was only seconds from breakdown.

Oster was a sniper. Snipers were disgusting beasts, in Tatiyana's opinion. She might have hated Russians, but to personalize death so willingly; It was one thing to fire wildly at men shooting back at you, it was quite another to line them up and minutes, hours perhaps stalking a man like an animal.

"Yes, there is a symbiotic nature to this sort of team," Oster confirmed to the two of them. "The same goes to artillery, radio operators and anti-tank guns. All members of the team have to know the job his team member does and must be prepared to do it if the circumstances fall to that. It's like marriage, only you replace the sex with killing…"

He trailed off. Slowly Oster cracked a mild grin as he watched Bohr pry open the MG-42.

"Or in your case, it's an unofficial marriage that feature both sex and killing."

The Opel truck full of men laughed once again as Tatiyana blushed for the first time in years.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

Sneering as he looked through his binoculars, he could smell the Americans from here.

Well… perhaps that was an overdramatic thing to think. From here he could not see anything, but there, the Americans were there, fuelling and resting. So far it appeared as though they were blissfully unaware of the massing of armour and men gathered and waiting for orders.

Sure, he might have been numerically inferior, but between the rapid deployments, being outside of the operational range of the American and English air forces and the armour division far too busy and the significantly more experience his men had collected would even out the large amounts of men and material only a few miles away from them.

Inwardly, he didn't believe that… this was shaping up to be Moscow all over again, this time against soldiers who didn't want to die.

Joachim lowered his binoculars and turned back to look on the faces of his men. From what he could see, they had all turned stony face. Not so much out of discipline. They had obviously heard the rumours about what happened to the Major. They were scared of him. Good. Fear worked better to keep a bunch of psychological cases in check then affording a great leniency. Keeping them distracted and busy left little time to focus on the hell they endured and on their comrades still trapped in that city.

Rubbing the shadow of a beard growing on his face, he stepped forward as he re-joined his officers and men, all of them still watching him wearily as he tucked his binoculars away. Hoch reached out and pulled a spade from out of a rather young looking soldier's belt. He turned away and hit the dirt hard with the trench tool. The soil was looser than he had expected Algerian soil to be. That was good.

"I want a two hundred metre trench dug from where I stand now, one hundred metres to my right, one hundred metres to my left, one metre deep, three-fourths a metre wide," Joachim commanded his infantry officers. "Command have a report that division sized armour force is stationed a ten kilometres from us. Get to work; we have only a short window of time before they press their advance. We're going to try and divert as much of them as we can to face us to relieve pressure off Guderian's arrival in Algeria."

The men did not reply, they simply went to work, all of them retrieving their trench shovels, lining up where Joachim had stood. Collectively they went to work as ordered, leaving his Peiper, his two majors and his Hauptmann's by his side. Quietly, he gestured them to follow his lead. All of them with exception to Peiper and Mann stayed a respectable distance away. It appeared as though the display the other day had scared them into respecting his command.

He was about to issue his orders when he glanced to side as the roar of a Tiger approach him, followed closely by vehicles that were not a part of his Kampfgruppe. The battered Tiger came to a stop; the hatch flew open and out came Dieter Hertzer, a large grin on his face as always. Was this man using Lithium perhaps?

"Apologies for my tardiness, Herr Hoch, Track problem arose, next thing we knew these guys were flagging us down," Hertzer explained, gesturing to the panzers and trucks approaching. Joachim nodded and gestured for him to join the armour pool parked a ways off from the infantry and trucks.

Hoch turned from his collection of officers and focused two dozen trucks and an additional armour support following Hertzer's lead. Joachim frowned and pushed through the men. Waving his subordinates to go about their business, he wandered the way to the new arrivals. So his artillery support had been provided just as Rommel had informed him.

The trucks came to a halt; the doors kicked opened and out jumped dozens and dozens of men landed. Joachim frowned slightly as he took in the strange uniforms, encrusted with the insignia, informing him they belonged in the Service of the King of Italy and to Il Duce. They were the Regio Esercito, the Royal Italian Army. Joachim frowned, this was his reinforcements? The last time he had served with foreign troops they were simply unequipped to keep up with him.

Sighing, he decided to push his doubts aside. He could not be picky now, not with fresh American troop's only kilometres away. Thankfully, it appeared that they out range their fight and Jago ranges. Very fortunate, he doubted he would have air support as well.

A half tonne truck pulled up in front of the transport trucks. It came to a stop a few metres away from him. The door of the vehicle opened and out climbed an elaborate looking mess. Looking a few years younger than him, the man featured the typical Italian features, olive skin, dark hair, brown eyes and a nose Joachim reckoned could be cut off and used as a bayonet. His eyes told him exactly what Hoch needed to know. They were too wide, vulnerable eyes.

Regardless, at least he had the good grace to come to a strict attention, offering Hoch a funny little salute as well.

"Captaino Roberto Cutri, artillery section commander from the 133 Armoured Division," the officer spoke with only the faintest hint of an accent. "As of now, I and my men are now attached to your Kampfgruppe. We are ready for your orders Herr Obersturmbannführer."

A quizzical look at the formality offered by the Captaino, Joachim clicked his boots together and simply nodded to the Italian.

"Just call me Hoch, welcome to the Kampfgruppe," Hoch returned, tilting his head slightly to scan the collection of trucks and armour. Pulling back, he added. "I do not intend to sound rude, but what have you brought me?"

"I am quite use to the blunt German nature by now," Cutri replied, his voice unbothered by the tone of the German. "I brought you flak cannons of the 20 millimetre to 8.8 centimetre variety, my Artillery are a mixture of Model 37, 105/38's and K-18's. I have three hundred and fifty men under personal command. I was issued ten Semovente self-propelled guns as well as a dozen Fiat m14/41's to give to you as a welcoming gift from Generale Gervasio Bitossi."

Joachim glanced at the obsolete light tanks and the somewhat useful tank destroyers. He simply nodded. It was better than nothing at this point.

"Send him my regards," he said. "Tell me, are they talented?"

The Captaino appeared bothered by the blunt question. Joachim would have been as well, but frankly, Joachim and his men and the Wehrmacht in general simply did not have the track record that the Regio Esercito had. Setbacks, sure, but the Regio Esercito had incidents of sheer incompetency since they declared war on France back in 1940. Time and time again, Germans had to sacrifice their lives to bail the Italians out of their latest debacle. It was the reason why Hoch was in the desert in the first place. If the Army of Italy had the same sort of talented officers that the navy had, then perhaps it would have been different.

"It will depend on the commandant in charge of them," Cutri replied, his voice remained respectful to him, but had enough bite buried in his tone that told Hoch that he wasn't like the other Italians he ran into.

Hoch simply nodded and turned away from the Captaino, his hand reaching out to glide along the roughly painted Semovente. Riveted… of course it was _riveted_ , not only riveted, but near box shape. He reckoned they simply did not have the time to properly build a tank chassis. This box shape and riveted plate armour technique was antiquated, he would have to be very careful with them…

"On a personal note, I would wish to extend my personal gratitude towards you, Herr Obersturmbannführer," Roberto spoke up. "You may not be aware of it, but you saved my brother's life."

Joachim turned away from inspecting the Semovente; He arched his brow at the Italian. He did not recall when he had the time to save an Italian. Perhaps the Captaino assumed one of the boys in the Leibstandarte had saved him in Malta. Before he knew it, an unwelcomed hand fell onto his back, a hand that belonged to Cutri. It took all Hoch's power not to drop the man. Unless he had a personal friendship with another man, he simply did not condone men touching him.

"Last year, in Tripoli, an SS officer helped repulse an English breakthrough at his defensive line," Roberto reminded him, taking his hand off Hoch. "I owe you a debt, for which I cannot repay, a debt owed by my entire family."

Joachim narrowed his eyes slightly.

"I wasn't aware that my trip here was public record."

The look of amusement offered by the Italian suddenly turned into a wide grin.

"When an SS man shows up uninvited to this front and acts in an admirable fashion that doesn't involve race war and baiting Jews, you will be spoken about," Cutri replied, watching Hoch involuntarily flinch.

With his brow arched, Joachim simply nodded and allowed the Captaino to head down to his waiting artillery pieces. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he turned to find Hauptmann Mann approaching him, his eyes following Cutri's departure before turning back to his friend, forcing his probably still wounded body to a state of attention.

"What was that about?" Mann inquired from his commandant, his hands behind his back as he watched the once again stared at the Italian who went to organize his artillery section. Joachim took the cigarette from his mouth and spat a mouthful of tobacco saliva.

" _Italians_ …" he breathed as though it was poison. "You do one accidental good deed and they're slobbering all over you like a dog."

The question was directed to himself. Mann being Mann however was always the one will to reply to it.

"Italians being flamboyantly dramatic, go figure. Come Joachim, I thought such a fact would not be such a new concept," he said, earning a slight laugh from Hoch.

The laughter quickly subsided as his two majors half a dozen Hauptmann`s approached him and Mann. Hoch erased any good humour off his expression and turned to them, gesturing for them to for a circle around him. Stamping on his cigarette, he looked up and turned his attention to the newly appointed Major Brenner, a veteran of this front.

"We have to face the truth. We are severely outnumbered," Joachim confessed out loud. "That said, I am confident we can cripple this division if we play smart. They have overextended themselves in their push to meet Guderian head on. If we can hurt them good… if we can cripple them, then it would be luck. If we destroy them… it would be a Godsend."

Hoch paused as he faced the newly promoted Major Brenner. He stood up straighter, a flash of almost fear spread across his face.

"Major Brenner, I want another line of trenches dug three hundred metres behind the first line, twice as long as the first," he ordered before he turned to Mann, adding. ``Mann, I want you to find as much spare TNT the engineers can spare and rig the first line to blow when we are forced to pull back. Take four one hundred litre gasoline drums, mix it with diesel, oil, anything flammable and place them every twenty five metres… "

Looking away from the nodding Mann, Hoch turned and found Captaino Cutri returning to join his new contemporary. The gathering of German officers looked distastefully at the new arrival. To his credit, Cutri appeared unperturbed by their cold reception. Still, they had enough restraint to not voice any objection. Joachim's word was law. They and their men were frightened of him after what happened to one of their own.

"Gentlemen, this is Captaino Roberto Cutri of the 133 Armoured Division. He's in charge of our Artillery," Hoch induced to them, hoping that they would at least offer him some ounce of respect. He turned back to Cutri, adding. "Herr Captaino, I want your men to switch uniforms with mine for the battle. I want your armour on the front line as well. Keep your artillery trucks nearby in case we have to flee. I want the artillery packed up and heading back to Bougie before I sound a general retreat."

Cutri's eyes widened at the sudden and strange request. He was not alone. The gathering murmured to each other.

"Uh… I understand, Herr Obersturmbannführer," was all the Italian could say.

From behind the gathered officers, laughter erupted. They turned and found Joachim Peiper approaching the group, a mild grin on his face as he peered through the men to focus on Hoch. Without waiting for the Heer officers to make room for him, he shoved through them and joined the younger SS Obersturmbannführer in the middle of the gathering.

"Booby traps, a smokescreen, uniform deception…" he listed off. "Diving back into academy training Herr Hoch? What do you have in mind?"

Hoch could only smirk as well. For a brief moment the interaction reminded him of the old days, before the quarians destroyed his love for the SS. The two men, Peiper and Hoch were in a private club that the men of the Wehrmacht could barely grasp. The brotherhood in soldiering was simply different. Even if there had been a dislike on the personal level, they shared common history that couldn't be ignored.

SS-junkerschule had been next to useless in the early years. Many good friends died because they thought they were better commanders then their Heer counterparts. It was simply not the truth and many paid for it with their lives. Three years into the war, the survivors had adapted SS brotherhood and fanaticism to Heer discipline. It was a lethal combination.

The thing was, in the heat of combat, much of SS training was discarded in favour of Heer tactics. The SS were called upon to be suicidal, but most men wanted to live to see the next day, so for the most part the call to arms was pushed to the side. Hoch however knew that he needed to revive this education. He was facing potentially a 10:1 in men and armour. Victory today required both intelligence and posturing. He needed to not just physically damage but he had to psychologically damage the Americans as well.

It was their only hope.

Asking for a regional map, one of his Hauptmann's dropped it down in front of him. It wasn't very accurate but it would suffice. If only he could show off what his Spy drones could reveal to them.

"We force them into an uphill battle. We hold it with three hundred and fifty men dressed as Italians, with the Italian armour on the line," he explained, turning away from Peiper and back to his Heer subordinates, his finger touching against their position. "After offering them a token resistance, we let them take the first line; their infantry will in all likelihood take cover when they see what is actually up here. Once they're situated, we blow the line. The 8.8 centimetres will be held back behind the second line along with the rest of the Kampfgruppe. As the tanks come up, we hit them and create a wall of steel. The Panthers and the Panzer III's and IV's flank around the wall of steel and hit the armour, from there the infantry pushes forward."

No longer tracing the map with his digit, he looked up to scan his officer's expression. For the most part they appeared almost eager.

"With any luck this succeeds, we continue the push carefully until we take the town of Bouïra…" he concluded, rolling the map up and handing it back to the Hauptmann.

Mann scratched his head, glancing briefly to his fellow officers before turning back to Hoch, who was gulping down a mouthful of water from his canteen. He hated this weather. He missed home, where it was pleasantly cold.

"Sabotaging our own trench? Tricking a superior force into an unsuitable battlefield? With all due respect, Herr Hoch, you're a goddamn lunatic," Mann said, his voice biting with mild humour. "What makes you think it will work?"

Screwing the cap of his water canister, he looked up briefly to Mann before running hand through his patchy hair.

"Because whether or not we like to admit it, such things have worked against us in Poland, France, Greece and Russia," Joachim informed them all, earning a low mutter, most of them concurring with his assessment. "Deception's single greatest quality is that it lures the enemy in to false superiority. It makes it that much easier to slit their throats when they think they have weaknesses. Between their arrogance in the rapid advance, inexperience, and the assumption we're not here… It will be a blood bath if we are lucky."

The gathering went silent as the words sunk in. Glancing at each of them for a few seconds he gestured to where the men were working.

"In any case, I wish you and your men good luck. We're all going to need it," Hoch concluded, pausing briefly before he awkwardly added. "You're dismissed."

The gathering of men dispersed, leaving Hoch standing alone. The only man who did not leave was Joachim Peiper. He stood there with his arms crossed, his eyes inspecting the younger Obersturmbannführer carefully. Deciding he wasn't going to put up with Peiper's shit anymore, Joachim was about to turn and tear into the man. What he had not expected was to find the former adjutant to Heinrich Himmler to actually appear somewhat impressed.

"You've inspired them. I think I might have been wrong about you. Perhaps education under Gerald Langer did not leave you completely mediocre. Tell me, what do you need of me?" Peiper inquired, his voice oddly respectful considering the distain he had shown Hoch being in command.

Eye glancing between the Tigers now empty as the crews inspected the new Panthers for themselves, his eyes fell onto a ridge in the distance. It was a good eight hundred metres to the western side of where the second trench was to be dug, overlooking the entire planned battlefield. More importantly, it was overlooking the ridgeline where he would lure the American tankers into climbing over. He pointed his finger upwards. Peiper followed the directions.

"I want you to take our armour and put it on that ridge over there," Joachim informed his executive officer. "Get those Tigers and Panthers up there hitting from a distance, I want camouflage netting on. Inform Dieter Hertzer he in charge of the heavy panzer brigade. I want the Italian self-propelled guns and the Panzer II's, III's and IV's dug in behind the second line."

Acknowledging Hoch as he saluted, Peiper turned and left, leaving Hoch alone finally. Quietly he watched as the Kampfgruppe went to work fulfilling his many orders.

Perhaps… perhaps maybe this would just work.

 **…**

* * *

 **...**

 _ **"With all due respect, he lost his Goddamn mind! I can respect his drive, but he's overextended too far and too damn fast!"**_

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Omar Bradley wished he had half the patience that Eisenhower had when it came to dealing with that high pitched shrieks belonging to that loudmouth Patton.

Bradley had a great respect for General Eisenhower. He appeared to have a smooth ability to handle the dozens of egos thrown at him over the course of his command. From _'Motor Mouth'_ Patton, to the overconfident Montgomery, from bitter the Leclerc to the political showdown between Giraud and De Gaulle and of Churchill and both Marshall and the President, who breathed down his neck for constant updates. How Eisenhower managed to duck and dodge through the bureaucratic mess that was having allies and a public that held him accountable, all the while commanding troops was impressive.

As good as he might have been, he was still human, and looking at Eisenhower now, sitting behind a desk, his hands in his heads as General Kenneth Anderson informed him of the foul up at Algiers. The French and the Italians were holding their ground impressively. The Two Divisions tasked to taking the city were in serious trouble now. The U-boats and the Italian navy had taken up positions in the waters, sinking any ship that got close. There simply wasn't a significant build-up of transportation planes to air supply the encircled Eastern Taskforce just yet. It would take precious days, days that would strain terribly on the force.

All of this chaos was caused by limited German involvement. What was going to happen if the Krauts committed to defending the French soil the Allies had landed on. Between solid intelligence that the Waffen-SS had barged their way into the front, Hitler actually paying a little attention to Rommel's unexpected success and the rumours that Heinz Guderian had his very own task force of his own, things were bound to get bloody.

Perhaps they should have listened to George Marshall. Stay in the Isles and prepare for an attack on the Atlantic Wall.

"I agree that Lloyd's advance has been rushed, but with good reason; The Italians focus has been centred on keeping Algiers from falling, or at the very least, make us pay inch for inch for that port city," Ike said as he pulled away from his hands to lean into his chair. "Thing is if we lose our eastern taskforce, we'll be in a world of trouble. Besides, our scouts and intelligence have reported the Germans are holding fast in Tunisia. They want our energy drained on the Italians and the French."

"It makes sense, sir. I just with Fredendall had informed us first," Omar spoke up, pushing his glasses up to meet his superior's gaze. "Sending the 1st Armoured out with no air support… It makes me nervous."

A snort came from Patton, who pulled off his cap, banging it on the side of his knee as he paced back and forth.

"I hate to be the one to remind you, but what you're suggesting that men like Rommel and Guderian are going to sit around with their thumbs up their asses and let us secure a foothold?" Patton spoke, his voice disbelieving to what he was hearing. "These men perfected the combined arms doctrine and Smashed through half a dozen countries already. Giving them the benefit of the doubt is reckless, bordering on stupid."

"We have to face facts, The Central taskforce is lucky to get their supplies, the eastern taskforce is going to run out of supplies soon enough," Bradley returned. "We have to prepare for the remote possibility that they will have to capitulate. Fredendall has to take this risk in order to create a lifeline. He has to cut the Axis troops off for a short while and push his taskforce straight up against Algiers to breakthrough. Listen George, Rommel and Guderian are not the same men who you think you're going to fight. Montgomery's exile across the Suez can attest to that."

Patton, however, was clearly not willing to listen to reason, laughing gaily; Patton allowed a condescending grin to cross his expression.

"Dear old Montgomery is an idiot who lost an entire army and did not have the balls to cut through the line and evacuate them, Brad," he said, his tone filled with disgust. "He let the infinitely more talented Alexander fall on his sword in his place. No... All Montgomery does is look for easy victories or prolongs the fight to justify his existence!"

Eisenhower looked up, his expression a look of warning for the excitable Patton.

"George, watch your tone."

Omar watched as Patton swallowed his pride as Eisenhower stared impassively at the glory hound. Satisfied he was back on the leash; Eisenhower leaned backwards into his seat.

"Monty's questionable leadership decisions aside, he has been right so far about his profile on Rommel," the head of the operation spoke again. "He's not taking risks for daring gambits against the enemy. He has evolved, everything is thought out and deliberate. For him now Algeria and Morocco are lost causes. Surely he knows that, surely he's told the Italians to pull back by now. He will make his stand in Tunisia. He has many miles of desert to make us pay for our advance."

Quietly Bradley sat there, still marvelling at how patient Eisenhower was being with the warhawk. It was times like these that Omar wished Eisenhower would take a page out of the English, or even the German's books and properly discipline the loudmouth.

"That's optimistic assumption and you know it!" Patton pressed on fuming furiously. "With all due respect sir… Bradley… you both just don't understand that man like I do. Not slandering the two of you… but either of you understands the power of self-image. Everything is ego based for a man like Rommel. Maybe if Guderian was his superior and in charge of the theatre, then perhaps Rommel wouldn't move, but he's in charge and to him an invasion of his turf is an insult to his name. He wants to keep the fight in Algeria, he needs to keep the fight here and because the fight is here, he'll join it. He's not going to sit on his ass and let us buzz around him!"

Bradley arched his brow.

"Even if his higher ups say no?" he shot back. "Do you actually think Hitler is going to allow this? He's a newly commissioned Field Marshal. He has a reputation to upkeep. The old Prussian guard is watching him closely. Rundstedt is gambling his reputation on a Swabian."

"General, Field Marshal, since when has that tricky son-of-a-bitch ever listened to a goddamn thing that little Bohemian incest case said?" Patton exclaimed as though he could not comprehend why the younger General doubted him. "Hitler said stay and support the Italians. Instead Rommel reached out, grabbed the English by the nose and popped those sons-of-bitches for everything they were worth. Outmanned and out gunned until recently. He may lick boots when he's at home -hell, we all lick boots at home - but out in the field he is his own master. A politician who is a thousand miles away from his fight and focused square on the Russian's isn't going to give a serious damn if Rommel bends and breaks his directives."

Patton took a deep breath.

"As for his blue blood contemporaries, it's simple jealousy. They have hundreds of years of military tradition to back them up, and Rommel didn't," Patton explained. "The only one that is close to his natural skill is Manstein. His manoeuvres relieving the Stalingrad pocket for a few hours... Goddammit if it wasn't finest rescue operation since Dunkirk… probably even better given the actual pressure placed on the relief force."

Bradley could not believe he was hearing this. Insulting allies, praising the German, was this man mentally sick? Rommel wasn't a hero by any sense of the word. He was pushing an aggressive war across lands that had no business being in German hands! The man should be hung.

"George, it's one thing to not underestimate the enemy," he said to the tanker, his voice weak with disbelief. "It's quite another thing to respect."

Patton however would hear none of that.

" _ **Why not**_?" Patton snapped back in a low growl that sounded like bull dog. "It's better to respect your adversary then to make assumptions and dismiss his actions in the past so flippantly. So yes I will respect him. Mark my word, Brad, when this war is over and he's in my custody, I'm going to make sure Roosevelt hands him a goddamn unit citation or something along those lines. It's the least he deserves."

Silence befell the room. Both Omar and Eisenhower stared at George, who cleared his throat. It was almost as though he had realized what he had said aloud.

"Now if you'll excuse me, sir. I'll make my leave," Patton requested.

Nodding to Eisenhower who had remained stone faced, Patton left, leaving Bradley and the Commander of the Operation in the room alone. Bradley turned back. He wanted to shout and rant about the display. One look from Eisenhower changed his mind. It was clear Ike was stressed out. So instead of spitting and hissing about that lunatic egomaniac, Bradley swallowed his anger, he would deal with Patton later.

"I know he's a friend, sir, I just hope you can muzzle him," Omar spoke with the most polite tone he could muster. "The press back home will have a field day if they hear that sort of talk... _Medals to Germans_ … with all due respect, I think he's lost it already."

Eisenhower simply nodded.

"I know he seems brash, but don't worry, I'll see to him," he reassured the junior general. "In the meantime find Cunningham and bring him to me. It's time to push forward. God help us, if Patton is right, then we need to be swinging the momentum in our favour."

Omar nodded, leaving Eisenhower to brood over what Patton had forced into his already overtaxed mind.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

 **Changes: Clean up, removed Some American infantrymen POV scenes, removed a dumb subplot I was going to build on involving the Italian mob in Uplifted: Arrival**


	14. January 15th, 1943: Part Two

**Chapter Fourteen: January 15th, 1943 Part Two**

 **…**

It did not take much to attract the Americans.

Say what you will about that mongrel melting pot of a people, they certainly were quick to offense. So much so that it startled Hoch.

Light howitzer fire into the centre of the town was what caught their attention in the end. Joachim could not see them approach but knew they were there as he heard the sound of engines pushing up the hill, the cracks of the Fiat and Semovente tanks firing down on the advance.

One Fiat exploded, then another, making Hoch wince at his first losses. He instead turned his focus to the pack of engineers approaching him, all of them carefully laying down the wire to the explosives they planted in the first trench. Noticing attention from their leader, the head engineer, a Leutnant, handed the wheel of wire to his underling and approached the Obersturmbannführer.

"How large of a charge and how much of a much of a delay?" he inquired as the engineer stepped into the trench.

"We laid around one hundred and fifty eight kilograms, Herr Commandant," the engineer replied as he retrieved his plunger from his satchel. "There will be a three second time delay at the most."

Joachim nodded. One hundred and fifty eight kilograms – three hundred and fifty pounds - itwould be more than sufficient when combined with the barrels of gasoline planted in the trench as well. Nodding to the engineers, he turned his focus to said trench; they were firing borrowed Carcano rifles down on the encroaching enemy, even as shells landed around them.

"Set up the plunger close to me," he ordered, grabbing his radio set that stood in between him and Hanala who stood there, ready for the fight. Lighting up the radio, he said. "Peiper,I want you to pull back. Hertzer, Cutri, check your fire until my orders."

Handing the receiver back to Hanala, he glanced down the line. All of them were in good state, ready for the incoming assault. He could see the Jager, Oster fiddling with his scope. He could see Hammer, staring ahead as if the lead up to the battle wasn't nerve wracking. Christian and Tatiyana were setting up the finishing touches of a machine gun nest, Christian quickly shovelling sand into bags while the woman laid them in place around the MG emplacement set up.

Hoch glanced at the detonator between his legs. The most terrible deal… it had to have been done by him. It was only right.

The squeaking tracks of the Fiat's and Semovente's caught his attention as they fell back towards the main line. Running alongside them was the decoy troops, whom jumped back into the trenches, threw their borrowed Italian weapons in the direction of the artillery and collected their STG-43's.

A small hand fell onto his shoulder, Joachim turned back round to find Hanala staring up at him, a nervous glint in her expression as her eyes darted from his to the battle approaching them.

"Just... try not to get killed, Joachim," she simply requested.

Slowly, Joachim allowed his personal fear to subside long enough to offer a shaky smile and nod. Satisfied, Hanala pulled the rifle hammer back and turned her focus, and her barrel at the direction of the attack.

…

…

 _ **"Dago bastards are fleeing! Come on boys! E Company's going to be the first ones to skin those greaseball fucks!"**_

Bolting in between the rolling M4A1 Sherman's, his company pushed past the tanks as they chased the retreating Italians. Near him was Captain Bill Thomas of C Company, his men just as eager to get the Italians as Miller's men were. After a year of standing around in England, hoping that the air force would keep the Luftwaffe from bombing their asses they had been itching to join in the fight. After a relatively bloodless capturer of Oran, the lust to bleed the Germans and Italians dry was growing more and more frantic.

Pushing past a burning Italian tank, its crew dead as they tried to escape the wreck, Miller grinned grimly at the sight. With any luck, they would meet up with more of these fascist sonsofbitches and offer them an exact same fate...

The Captain froze, his eyes widening at the sheer amount of men and guns waiting for them. There standing in front of line of infantry stood an elaborately dressed Nazi. He looked almost aristocratic as he held his ground, one of his hands was high in the air as he stared down the stunned and outmanned infantry company, Not for long however, the Sherman's were now rolling over the edge of the hill .

As though his hand was a blade, the Nazi swung his arm down.

" _ **FEUER**_ _!_ " The Nazi screamed.

The entire line erupted into so much fire that the Captain could not believe it possible. Not when all intelligence reports told them that German infantry was primarily armed with bolt action rifles, greatly inferior to the Garand and the carbines his boys were armed with. The intelligence failure cost him a dozen men, shattered by bullets as the rest of his men bolted forward into the abandoned trench left by the Italians.

Behind him came the Sherman's, which gave him a momentary hope as he opened fire on the well hidden Infantry, but ducking as the German machine guns opened up on them. The hope did not hold; before the line of Tanks could drop their barrels and target the enemy infantry, distant shots rumbled, then exploded against the tanks. The shots were devastating. The Sherman's were torn open, blown wide open and set on fire.

"The fire already incredibly on Miller's back, The Captain got several shots off before ducking to find his radioman, he was dead, a series of large bullet holes trailing from his stomach to neck. Winching, He wiped the blood off the receiver and tuned into Central command back in the town. They needed to halt the attack before anyone else died. They needed to either move on or flank the enemy. Anyone else going up the hill was going to get pulverized.

Judging from the whistling of intense artillery fire raining behind him, it was likely already happening. Just as he was about to glance over the trench line, the ripping of machine gun fire shot over his head, kicking dirt into his eyes.

"This is Miller, East Company actual," he said as he wiped his eyes. "It's a deception! Krauts are here, repeat, we've made contact with German infantry! Forward armour is lit up. We need to pull back!"

He paused for a brief second as he noticed something shining sticking out of the soil, near the dead radioman. Miller narrowed his eyes as he wiped the dirt from off what appeared to be a label. Written in dark bold letters next to a symbol of skull and crossbones were the following words.

 _ **ACHTUNG! SPRENGSTOFFE: Mit Vorsicht zu handhaben!**_

Miller's eyes widened. He did not need to speak Kraut to know what it had meant.

" _Oh_ **GOD,** " was he could get out.

 **…**

* * *

 **...**

Pulling his eyes from his binoculars, Joachim turned back. The second trap was ready to be sprung. He pounded the plunger down and watched as a deafening eruption of noise, fire, sand and smoke erupted from the first line and flew high across the battlefield. Two hundred metres of trench pushed upwards as five hundred pounds of TNT exploded outwards and into the sky. Thick black smoke from the oil and gasoline left behind in the trench billowed upwards, surrounding the burning American armour. Still the fire spat out from the trap. Hoch could not help it, his stoic expression turned into one of great excitement and for a few long seconds, joy that it worked.

" _ **Cease fire!**_ " Joachim called out to his men. " _ **Let them burn!**_ "

The men complied, the Kampfgruppe firing line fell silent, only the artillery continued to blast. The screams echoed through the air, down the valley and towards the American lines.

Through the smoke came several men, screaming and writhing as they tried to shake the fire off of them. Joachim raised his hand, a silent order that told his men not to fire and put them out of their misery. The screams of the men doused in fire would send a shiver out the spine of any infantryman stupid enough to pop over the ridge. From behind the wreckage of the line of destroyed armour, he could hear hidden infantrymen screaming with futilely as they apparently were watching their dying comrades as well.

 _ **"YOU FUCKING MONSTERS!"**_ he heard one of the surviving Americans scream towards the Kampfgruppe. It might have been true, but Hoch ignored it. He ignored the murmuring belonging to Hanala, whispering something in her native language as she continued to look down the irons of her STG-43.

What he could not ignore was the sudden buzzing roar of an MG-42, disobeying his orders and instead erupting not fifty metres from him, the rounds tearing through the dying men. Joachim rounded back and narrowed his eyes. Through the masses of his men, he noticed Christian Bohr; sprawled on the ground, behind the gun was the Russian bitch, her resolve clearly broken as she gripped the machine gun tightly and her eyes wide.

Brushing Hanala off him, who reached out to keep him from leaving her. Hoch stormed over to where the woman was prone. Tearing her eyes away from the burning bodies, the woman looked up at the last moment to see Joachim standing over her, his hand stretched out as it reared back and slapped the stunned woman so hard, she fell down next to Bohr, who looked close to lunging at his Commander.

Without a second of reprieve, Hoch reached down and gripped the front of the woman's jacket, pulling her limply up.

 _"You want to play dress up, is that it?_ " Hoch hissed down at the woman, her nose trailing a stream of blood that touched her lips. "You want to play soldier, then you had better act like one. When I say _'cease fire'_ , you had better push your conscious away and listen!"

Joachim dropped her on top of Bohr, who reached out to hold her back. She looked close to taking a swing at him. His boot stepped down onto her fist, pinning it in the dirt and making her yelp. Unable to struggle under the much larger man's strain, Tatiyana looked up at him, her expression sour.

"They… they were _dying_!" She hissed.

"That's the point, you brainless cretin. We simply haven't the strength to fight them conventionally. Terror has to be used," Hoch growled at her, before dropping her once more. He turned back to Bohr and added. "Put your bitch on a leash or I'll send her right back to that shithole she came from,"

Turning away and pushing through his men, and joined Hanala, who was staring at him, in one hand a radio receiver. Hoch took it as he turned back to face the battlefield.

"Hoch here."

" _This is Hertzer, dust cloud building and coming towards your right flank,"_ The panzer detachment leader informed his Commandant. _"I estimate one hundred armour units flanking on your right. We would like to engage and thin their numbers."_

Hoch pinched the bridge of his nose. He did not have time to celebrate the first part of their plan's success, not when nearly two hundred tanks were coming his way in a matter not dissimilar top a cavalry charge… or a page torn out of Guderian's playbook. Then again, what did he expect when he was ordered to engage an entire division?

Well… he would do what he could.

"The moment you get them in your gun sights, you're clear to fire. Get in touch with Cutri and get his artillery bottling them into the kill zone."

Closing the channel he cupped his hands over his mouth.

 _ **"FIRE!"**_ He roared to his men.

With that, the Kampfgruppe infantry recommenced their engagement against the pinned Americans. With any luck the effect on morale would last.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

 _ **"This is Miller, E Company Actual. It's a deception! Krauts are here, repeat, we've made contact with German infantry! Forward armour is lit up. We need to pull back! OH GO-!"**_

The radio transmission went to a screeching static, replacing it was a deafening boom that rattled the makeshift headquarters window. It shook desks and chairs, making the men gathered in the room jump.

Handing the receiver back to his radioman, Major General Orlando Ward kicked his chair aside as he bolted out of his offices and stood on the veranda, surrounded by his immediate subordinates. He stood there, his hands gripping the rails as his eyes watched the aftermath of the explosion. He could see the thick black smoke, the flame roaring high in the sky from a mile or so away from them.

Surrounding the explosion was dozens of smaller fires, caused by the artillery shells falling on the rear of the taskforce, or it came from the burning armour, mostly his. How could this have happened? He had been given assurances no Axis troops would be in any other sector than focused solely around holding Algiers. What seemed to have been a contingent of Italians had turned out to be the goddamn German Afrika Korps? His men had no experience. He had planned on training them on the Italians and French. Oran was captured in a matter of days, fought by infantry and only sporadically. His armour hadn't been needed.

It also didn't help he had to leave sixty seven tanks and most of his mobile artillery at the bottom of the ocean, just off the coast of Portugal. So now, not only was his division was green, but relatively undermanned. Green he could beat out, a lack of equipment was a whole different matter altogether.

Ward shook the sudden chill that coursed through the back of his mind. What if Rommel was just beyond that ridge, toying with him, setting him up for destruction? He immediately shoved such thoughts aside. He was a General in the United States Army. He was better equipped, had fresh men and had the goddamn United States Army Air Force watching his back. Today he would be the first one to show that the invincibility of the Desert Fox was simply a hoax.

"This is General Ward," he said as he grabbed the radio and broadcasted out to his waiting armour and infantry, "Today we will be beating holy hell out of the Germans. I want the second taskforce to support the attack, third will hold ground! Second Taskforce will manoeuvre to the left flank of the first taskforce!"

Dropping the radio he turned to his liaison to the USAAF.

"Get on the horn and contact Fredendall," he ordered. "Get us some goddamn air support out here!"

"We're out of range-"

" _ **Get us some air support!**_ " Ward cut off the Major's excuses. "Any air support will do! Just get some **goddamn** planes in the sky!"

Watching the Major leave, the radio came to life, sound drowned out by static and gunfire.

 _ **"-This is Able Company Actual, forwards infantry units are down! Three companies' dead, B, C and E companies are gone. Oh God, they're OBLIBERATED! Fifty plus Sherman's and Lee's are burning! We have anti-tank fire across the field and incoming shells from further back and dug in tanks waiting for armour to pop back over the ridge! I estimate a division is here! Pushing forward is a no go!"**_

Wiping the sweat from off his Brow, Ward hit the send button.

"Now listen here Able Company Actual, this is General Ward," Orlando spoke evenly. "I know it's a hard spot you're in, but you need to pull yourself together. I want you to reorganize and hold your ground until the rest of the taskforce arrives, and by God as my witness, they shall arrive. Give those krauts all you can give!"

There was a brief pause.

 _"R-roger that, General Ward! Krauts are dug in. We'll see what we can do,"_ the officer said, his voice cautious and resigned to the issued commands. _"Able actual out!"_

Sighing as the channel died, Ward leaned against the railing, his eyes never leaving the battlefield. He should have been out there. He was sending these boys to the grave now… He should be at the very least risking his neck as well.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

 _This didn't work; this could not possibly have worked. We did damage them…easily four hundred dead, dozens of tanks, pretty damn good work, besides, that was all Command had asked of him to do, bloody their nose and survive to fight another day. Perhaps they should pull out. Leave the Panthers and Panzer IV's on the rear covering the retreat… No fucking way the Americans would press an attack into a kill zone… Yes, it was time to sound the retreat, before he suffered anymore loss-_

"Hoch! They're pushing forward!"

Joachim's thought process was interrupted by Hanala. Hanala was firing down the line at the American infantry, who on their bellies in the sand as they pushed forward in some sort of creeping advance. Behind them and the small arms coming from them, Joachim could hear the sound of tracks and engines approaching them; More American armour. Lightly armoured, but they had more than enough in numbers and in firepower to overwhelm his Kampfgruppe.

Near the burning wrecks stood teams of two men, one carrying a shoulder mounted cylindrical tube. It was peculiar, a very peculiar sight.

As he continued to look through his binoculars down the battlefield, Joachim was unaffected by the fire kicking around him. Before he knew it, a hand pulled him back down into the trench. It was Hanala, her eyes glaring at him as she reloaded her STG-43. He ignored her hard expression as he brushed the sand off his cap. He needed to buy some time for the retreat.

"Joachim, I think these Americans have constructed themselves shoulder launch anti-tank grenade launchers... quite clever of them…" she spoke as she exchanged magazines. "They appear primitive and inaccurate, but your light tanks are going to be knocked out if they get too close."

Joachim nodded his head faintly. It was yet another weapon in the American arsenal to be utilized against him and his men, now if he could only capture a few of them. Have them sent back to the Fatherland for reverse engineering.

"I understand… this fight is over… we need to run. They have to know that we're a small unit…" he murmured to the woman as she pulled back the rifle hammer. "It's the only reason they'd do it, attack in force. We need to scare them… hand me my radio."

Nodding, Hanala gave Joachim the radio set and stood up once more, her rifle blaring over his head, expended bullet casings' rained into his lap. Joachim tucked his binoculars away and get onto the radio frequency. He cleared his throat.

" _ **CUTRI, INTENSIFY ARTILLERY FIRE, PULL ANY MAN OFF THE RESERVE TWENTY MILLIMETERS AND JOIN THE REST OF THE INFANTRY LINE!"**_ He roared out as the fire around him intensified. _**"PEIPER, I WANT THE STUG'S, PANZER II'S, III'S AND IV'S TO ADVANCE FIFTY METRES, NO HESITATION! HERTZER… KEEP FIRING, BUT FIRE SMART! GET YOUR MEN ON THE MG'S AND PEPPER THE INFANTRY BEHIND THE WRECKS! THEY APPEAR TO HAVE SOME SORT OF ROCKET BASED WEAPONRY!"**_

Closing the channel as soon as he received affirmations from his commanders, Hoch grabbed his rifle and stood up, firing twice into an American loading the strange looking tube device being carried by a second man. Before that man could hide, shot him through his helmet, dropping him next. He turned to Hanala, who was firing on a jeep with a machine gun on it and pulled her back down with him.

"Listen Hanala, I need air support, get on the line with Falan and see what she can scrounge up from Rommel," Hoch ordered his voice significantly softer. He was in charge, but she probably didn't like him shouting at her.

Regardless of how he might have issued the order, the order itself made Hanala scowl.

"Rommel said-"

"Rommel says a lot of things, all of which full of his own _shit_ ," Joachim cut her off, gripping her forearm to keep her from returning to the fight. "The Americans probably have an aerial armada in Oran and Morocco by now. They could have thousands of thousands planes here already. They have probably sent word back to their command, which have sent whatever they can, even for brief strafing attacks. Ten… twenty out of the air fleet could devastate us utterly… I need air cover, and he had best find me something, anything!"

Staring at him for a long moment, Hanala finally nodded, her hand touching his knee briefly before she stood up and climbed over the back of the trench to bolt back behind Cutri's 8.8's,

Watching until she vanished from view, Joachim turned back to face the front.

Perhaps a fake offensive would send them running.

At least that had been the plan before Joachim heard the buzzing sound above them. It was approaching them, and not the Americans. The Americans were playing their trump card…

Overwhelming air superiority…

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

Swallowing down two tablets of Panzerschokolade, Hertzer ignored the near immediate twitch running through his system caused by the relatively strong dose of Methamphetamines now dissolving in him body.

Rubbing his eyes and moving out of the way for Ulrich Weber as the driver grabbed another belt of MG-34 ammunition for the turret mount machine gun he was operating. Hertzer cracked his knuckles, His head leaning forward to peer out of the Tiger optics. He could feel his bottom lip quivering, his skin almost moved.

He looked through the optics and immediately spotted their first catch of the day. It was a light tank in his scopes… perhaps a medium tank at the very best. Americans apparently had sacrificed armour and armaments for mobility. It was good if they were in a slugging match in an urban environment, or rough terrain. But they had invaded fucking North Africa. The whole goddamn region was flat and relatively rural; what in the hell were they thinking?

They reminded him of a heavier Panzer III, a quick and nice little tank, but like in 1941, these tanks were facing superior guns and armour. Having survived an encounter with a rather nasty KV-1 back in the early days of the Russian invasion, Hertzer could only now empathize with the amount of power the KV commander must have felt back then, harassing the light tanks that were caught off guard.

"Alright gentlemen, round two," he announced to his crew. "Rotate turret 10 degrees, depress gun 4 degrees."

The crew worked like a well-oiled machine. The turret moved and was now tracking an American tank rushing as quickly as it could up the side of the side of the line the Obersturmbannführer had built in an effort to catch them off guard. They were well trained from the looks of it. Perhaps they were even over prepared. They were using textbook tactics, old uninspired, tactics they tried copying from the first blitzkriegs in Poland and the Low Countries. Well… It would work if they had simply looked around their surroundings a tad more carefully and understood that the horrors of the eastern front had shaped the tankers they were facing off against.

Regardless, for their lack of foresight, the armour column would pay for it.

 **"FIRING LINE, OPEN FIRE!"** Hertzer roared over the radio line to his Panzer detachment.

Sixteen high velocity guns rained hell down on the flanking American tank section. It was almost like the battles from the Napoleonic era, except the Americans simply hadn't known it happened until it was too late. A dozen exploded in the barrage almost all of them immediately engulfed in flames that no crew could possibly escape from. Burning caskets for the four or five men inside. Hertzer tried to ignore the pang in his gut as he watched the sight. It had very nearly happened to him in Russia. His Panzer III had taken a hit and was set alight by the KV-1. Rolf, his radioman was badly burned.

"They're on fire… my God, what kind of asshole designs their tank engines to use gasoline, but doesn't have the decency to properly armour the vehicle?!" Hertzer nearly screamed. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to become professional once more; he turned the optics once more and said. "Retarget, turret rotation by 13 degrees, gun depression down by two degrees… _**FIRE**_!"

The gun went off, the round connected against the second tank, lower than Hertzer had expected. The round blew the tank off its track so hard that the wheels of the armoured vehicle appeared to have bent inwards. Hertzer nodded, proud of the second kill made, this was becoming a one sided battle. There was no possible way for this flanking manoeuvre to survive. He would probably have to call up the supply trucks to bring the detachment more ammunition at this rate.

By the second volley, the American tank attack had either halted, or in its chaos, scattered, some charging towards the German defence, many others, going in all different directions. It was human nature to do it. Hertzer remembered his first serious tank battle outside of Calais ended up a mess like the one he was seeing. If they were talented, the American survivors would not make the same mistake again.

"Good hit, knocked that bastard's track right off, rotate turret by thirty three degrees!" Hertzer ordered once more.

As soon as they lined up on a third tank and tore it open, a sudden loud clank smashed against the front armour, pinging hard enough to make Hertzer wince hard. It made Friedrich Thomsen, the loader fly back into the commander. His eyes were wide and frightened.

" **WE'VE BEEN HIT!** " He screamed like a woman, who had witnessed a murder. Hertzer growled as he shoved Thomsen back in place and took a swipe at the back of his head.

"They have pop guns, we have twelve centimetres of plate wielded steel and improvised we wielded on," he reminded the driver. "Now shut up and _focus_."

Hertzer looked through the optics once more and found that the attacker had been the tank they knocked off the track. It appeared that the crew decided to stick around and fight. Brave, but foolish. When a tank was knocked out and there was a chance for survival, he would usually allow the crew to exit the disabled armour and flee. It was that sort of behaviour that Hertzer would hope to be extended to him should the situation arise.

Next to him was Rolf, who snorted derisively.

"Might I remind you that we have twelve centimetres of cracked and damaged armour?" Rolf muttered just loud enough over the buzzing of MG-34 fire over their heads.

Hertzer paused himself from issuing any further orders., silently cursing Rolf for reminding him that one lucky hit on the crack could penetrate the tank. It was an off chance, but one he wasn't about to risk. The crew would simply have to die for hitting them.

"Alright…" Hertzer agreed, changing his policy. "Retarget that crippled tank, finish that bastard off. No one shoots at us."

Before the order could be completed, the crippled tank's back portside exploded inwards. Hertzer banged his forehead against the back of the driver seat; so much for adding another kill to the roster. He paid no attention to the radio coming to life until a low chuckle erupted.

"Tiger 246 reporting in, you're welcome for the save, Sigrid II… Just a humble Waffen-SS panzer crew doing your job… better than you…" a voice crackled over the radio, its tone sly. "Your Tiger is an eyesore, by the way. Anymore paint scratches on your vehicle and I'm reporting it to the Commandant."

The radio died, leaving Hertzer glowering slightly.

"Next target…" He grumbled to Hanke and Lehrmann, his gunner and loader team. Both men looked somewhat exhausted.

Clearing his throat, Lehrmann said. "We just smoked another tank, give us a moment-"

Hertzer pulled the tablet bottle out of his medical kit and handed it to the team.

"Take your Panzerschokolade and get ready for the **NEXT TARGET**!" He shouted at them.

Glowering, Hertzer went back to his spotting, determined not to be bested by that pansy SS man.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

Fifty seconds.

Fifty seconds was all that it had taken for his plans to unravel. The air attack, as brief as it might have been had been devastating. One Panzer IV, Three Panzer's III, all of the Panzer II's, half of the Fiats was scrap metal now. God knows how many infantrymen had fallen. Fifty seconds of air cover had bought the devastated American division to hit reversal and begin the slow retreat back into the city.

The Kampfgruppe was reorganizing. The Tigers and the Panthers' fired the last of their rounds and joined the rest of the armour group for resupply for whatever lied ahead. For whatever Joachim Hoch had on his mind next. Attack, fall back, it did not matter. Their objectives had been complete regardless, the Division had been shattered. It was now up to Joachim Hoch to make a decision.

Unfortunately for the Kampfgruppe, Hoch's focus was diverted away.

 _"Come, on come on, come on!_ " Joachim moaned, until finally the figure of a quarian woman stood before him on his omni-tool. "Falan, this is Hoch. I need a medical transportation on my location. Follow Hanala's omni-tool. She's… she's been hurt…"

Barely paying attention to the affirmative, his were wide in terror. Lying underneath him was Hanala. Her chest was torn open with shrapnel and what appeared to have been small calibre bullet wounds. Crying as Joachim sloppily wrapped bandage after bandage around her torn open uniform, his hand digging into her flesh to stop the bleeding.

Joachim had found her sprawled out next to a burnt out Opel Blitz ammunition carrier, which had been parked near his shot to shit staff car. Perhaps the exploding bullets did the damage. Whatever the case, she was bleeding badly… she needed to get out of here. She needed to... She needed to leave.

 _"Jo-Joachim..."_ Hanala sobbed, struggling to move under the pressure Hoch kept her contained in.

Joachim slapped her across the cheek, trying his best to keep her focus on him and not the wounds that she was hurt by… hurt not dying from, hurt. Hanala was incapable of dying. She did not understand the concept. Noticing the sand sticking against her back, caused by burns of some kind, Joachim carefully rolled her on her side, making her scream out as he wrapped the wounds.

"I –I… sorry…"

Yet again, Joachim backhanded her lightly.

"Shut up, just shut up, Hanala. You're going to be _fine_ ; it's just a couple burns and scrapes," Joachim lied. His eyes looking up to find that Joachim Peiper having joined his CO, his eyebrow wide as he wordlessly watched; with a shaking voice, he said, "Peiper… Peiper, send word to the Kampfgruppe, we're pushing ahead... **FUHRMANN!** "

Like a loyal dog, Fuhrmann rushed to his Obersturmbannführer, who had tenderly lifted her was cradling Hanala's in his arms. Heinrich's eyes darted from his boss to the alien woman who looked close to simply bleeding out. Together, Fuhrmann and Hoch bolted in the direction of Heinrich's Hanomag. Fuhrmann opened the back door and carefully help Joachim slide the squirming and moaning quarian into the back of the open top troop transport.

" _C-cold..."_ He heard Hanala moan, nearly making Hoch lose all of his control. Breathing shallowly, he turned up to meet Fuhrmann's concerned eyes.

"F-Fuhrmann, take your squad and head straight east until the quarians send a drop ship for her." Joachim spoke blankly as his shaking hands pulled off his bloodied jacket and draped it over her hastily bandaged body.

Fuhrmann nodded and, without asking permission, pulled the SS man off Hanala, her eye's darting back and forth as though she was wondering where he was going and why he wasn't joining her. Hoch stood there and watched as the Hanomag loaded up with the squad.

A shake on his shoulder caught his attention. It was Fuhrmann again.

"She's going to be fine, Herr Hoch…" the fellow Waffen-SS man murmured behind him. "but you have to get back to work. You have to finish this… for her."

Looking between his former adjutant and to Hanala, whom was still faintly moaning his name, Hoch took a long drawn out breath and steeled himself just enough to nod his head. Slapping his shoulder, Fuhrmann let go of Hoch and climbed into the back of the Hanomag, banging his hand on the roof twice before taking a place at Hanala's side.

As the Hanomag rolled away, Joachim fell to the ground, his breathing was all shot. His eyes could not believe just how soaked his hands were by Hanala's cooling blood. This shouldn't have happened. This wasn't right. This wasn't fucking right.

A sudden sharp pain shot through his forearm. Joachim looked down and with wide eyes, found a hypodermic needle pricked into his veins, pumping a clear fluid that Hoch instantly knew was medical methamphetamine. His eyes looked up to find that it was Joachim Peiper administering the shot; His expression somehow most bored and furious as he pulled the needle out of Hoch's forearm.

"A little chemical motivation was in order," Peiper explained as he dropped the needle into the bloodied dirt. "I mean all due respect to you Herr Hoch, but there is a good reason why _women_ should stay off the battlefield. War should be waged with limited emotional conflict, and having love put at risk… well it's just plain stupid…"

Blinking furiously as the large injection of amphetamines were now coursing through his veins, he gestured to the Kampfgruppe now organized and preparing to follow the American retreat. Turning back, he looked up into Peiper's glare, his arms cross. Slowly, the Obersturmbannführer lulled his head, bobbing it up and down.

There was only one thought that ran through Hoch's mind now.

 _Revenge_.

The Americans would pay for what they did to his Hanala. To think he was going to let them run away freely…

"I… _**fuck**_ … I… just.. _**begin the attack**_ …" Hoch breathed, his words poisonous. "I…I…I… I'll be a few moments behind you. Peiper, I want the Flamethrower's deployed. Bouïra burns tonight, are we clear?"

His eyebrow arched as Hoch's true colours appeared. Peiper smiled slightly, nodding his head in understanding. With that Peiper left to begin the assault on the retreating Americans. His departure left Hoch alone with his guilt.

Alone so that the meth induced rage took control of him.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

 **Changes: Clean up, deleted a Citadel station scene, it will probably be posted on a more relevant chapter. I also removed Michael Wittmann from the Kampfgruppe. I always sort of felt there were too many famous soldiers in it. Removed the Allied pilot scene, writing planes are not a specialty.**


	15. January 16th, 1943

**Chapter Fifteen: January 16th, 1943**

 **…**

 _"This is General Orlando Ward reporting directly to Western Taskforce. Situation is deteriorated to the breaking point. Eighty Sherman's left. Everything else is in German hands. Estimate three thousand men left in the division that are capable of fighting."_

"So… No rational German would make a stand for Algeria."

General's Eisenhower and Bradley looked up at the voice, high and nearly gloating. Naturally it belonged to George Patton. He appeared ready for combat, his helmet on, his pistol at his side, giving him the appearance of a cowboy looking eager to wipe out fascists. Inwardly Omar cringed at the smug war hawk leering at the two more level headed Generals.

As always, Eisenhower showed his lenient respect to his old mentor and friend. He stood and gestured the tanker to join them. Patton obliged, taking a seat next to Omar, turning slightly to offer him a nod. Omar could barely contain his seething annoyance long enough to return the welcome.

"It seems I owe you an apology, Georgie," Eisenhower started, his voice resigned to having to admit his failure of perception. "You were right, Rommel struck fast and hard. He's nearly broken the First Armoured Division and has them pinned down in what remains of Bouïra. I shouldn't have doubted you; I'm starting to empathize with Montgomery now."

Patton crossed his arms.

"With all due respect, I'm not looking for a goddamn apology. I'm looking what will be done for our boys!" he said to his CO, his tone remaining respectful. "Give me an armour battalion and enough fuel trucks and I could get there in two days and kick the ever loving piss out of those Germans."

"It will be too late for that. The division will collapse soon if they cannot withdraw. There is nothing you can do," was all Bradley could manage to say.

Patton blinked, his head swilling to turn back to Bradley. He looked as though Omar had muttered something treasonous out loud. He wasn't going to sugar coat it, not when Eisenhower was in concurrence with his opinion. The division was doomed. It was only a matter of how Ward wanted to end the battle: withdrawal or surrender.

 _"Nothing we can do?"_ Patton repeated incredulously. "Am I going deaf? Those are our boys dying in droves and you would do nothing. Just shrug your shoulders and say _'tough shit'_?"

"I didn't say tha-"

"That's enough from the both of you!" Eisenhower intervened before the argument turned infantile. "George, Brad is right and you better accept it before you get some foolish notion in your head. There is nothing we can do for those boys from here. The air force is tied up forcing the Italians out of Algeria; Ward is operating outside of proper fighter support range. It will be a week to move a force this distant towards them. They have hours, at best a day."

Omar and George ended their argument. They turned back to face Eisenhower.

"What do we know about the Germans facing Ward and his boys?" Patton inquired.

Looking at each other, Eisenhower leaned to pull a file from his desk. He handed it over to Patton, who opened it to find only a small written report and a single photograph inside.

"This came in three hours ago. We know they're a smaller unit, but heavily armed for a two thousand man battalion. Intelligence also received photographs of what appears to be the Commander, via British intelligence," Omar spoke as he explained the photograph and file to Patton. "We think Rommel sent them as a forward unit to harass Algiers until Rommel could deliver the rest of his taskforce. We know that they are heavily armed, more so than we expected them to be."

Patton examined the photograph carefully. The German in question was tall, a scowl looking permanently etched onto his expression. He was holding open the door as several other Germans exited the bar, carrying a body in their arms. Patton squinted. What the hell was the German doing?

"His name is Hoch, according to second hand reports, a Lieutenant Colonel in the Waffen-SS," Bradley told the tanker, who narrows his eyes. "Judging from the photograph, he's the rather nasty sort. One of those indoctrinated teenagers, whom probably been fighting the war since the beginning. He snuck his Battalion to the front by ocean and landed in Bougie."

Patton nodded. A Nazi, a genuine, honest to goodness, soulless little blue eyed Nazi. Quietly, his eyes focused once more on the dead man.

'Who's the stiff?" he asked.

Eisenhower and Bradley glanced to each other. Patton looked up, expression clearly demanding an answer from the two of them. Finally Eisenhower cleared his throat.

"Intelligence agent claims it was one of his own men, a Major," Eisenhower explained to George, his voice remaining neutral. "The Major killed a civilian so Hoch summarily executed him… by his own hand."

Patton's eyes widened. He looked from Eisenhower to Bradley, who nodded, confirming the information. As soon as he did, Patton allowed a laugh to escape him.

"Someone who seems to take rule of war seriously enough to kill his own men; I have to admit it's impressive," murmured Patton as he set the picture back in the folder, his words making Bradley shudder at the display. He added. "Why not order Fredendall to relieve his division?"

Eisenhower shook his head.

"We can't risk running anymore of his taskforce into falling into the same trap. Hoch could just be the vanguard, a distraction for the main advance," Bradley replied. "The Central Taskforce has been blunted; the Western Taskforce is in tatters. They need to conserve their strength until we reach them."

Silence fell between the three Generals. Patton was in serious contemplation. It was a few long moments before Patton finally looked back up to the small gathering.

"Okay… let's say I'm fine with abandoning the 1st Armoured, which for the record, I am not," Patton spoke, the very thought of the inevitable making him disgusted. "The way I see it, we have to make our presence felt. Push the Western Taskforce hard and fast all the way up to Oran. The German needs to know we're there and we're looking for his blood."

Eisenhower's lips twitched as he watched Bradley's expression widen.

"Then we will be stuck in the middle of Algeria for a week or two waiting for fuel lines to be set up. This was the exact same issue that Rommel had to deal with during the first Battle of El Alamein. This is insane-"

" _Dammit Brad, let me finish!_ " Patton countered, snapping at the man and forcing Omar's silence before turning back to Eisenhower. "We stall out the Western taskforce in the desert; I drive up to Oran and take over command of the Central Taskforce. The Central Taskforce will be used as a sword. The Western taskforce is the shield while it waits for the fuel lines to catch up. I make a cut at the Germans and pull back to behind the shield."

Both of the men looked on the tanker disbelievingly. Patton grinned crookedly as he ran his hand over his blading hair. Exhaling sharply, Hoch turned away from the audacious man and back to Eisenhower.

"As impossible as this may sound, George may be onto something…" Bradley conceded, as painful as it sounded. "It's in our best interest to take this risk. The German build up could be significantly larger if they had sent such a large reaction force after Ward so quickly.

Eisenhower nodded; he turned back to his old friend.

"Central Taskforce is down one division, it will be probably outnumbered and will have to face off against battle hardened veterans commanded by some of the finest officers ever produced in modern combat," Eisenhower summed up the situation for the Major General. "Are you absolutely certain you have what it takes to protect the taskforce? The Germans aren't going to pussyfoot around now, and neither can we."

Patton bared his teeth in a grin as he accepted the challenge.

"Sir, you can count on me. Rommel and Guderian are going to wish they were never sent to this front in the first place," Patton assured both men, standing from his seat, pulling his helmet over his head as he rested one hand on his ivory handled Smith & Wesson Revolver. "Two versus one… It might just be a fair fight."

Taking a deep breath as he tried to ignore Patton's bravado, Eisenhower turned to Bradley. He was resigned to the decision. It was the only play they had in their books for the time being.

"Bradley, send the word, we move out in an hour."

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

 _"-Hoch, Generale Bitossi is most grateful for the show of force. He has diverted supply trucks and has sent a battalion south. They should arrive by midday."_

 _"-One hundred forty eight dead, one hundred and three wounded, we killed five thousand, easily three hundred tanks destroyed, thirty of the Sherman's are in working order; Just had to scrape the crews out. Four hundred are captured. We'll leave them with Cutri's men."_

 _"I did what you asked, three hours of basic tank school isn't going to be enough, but it will do for now. Thankfully a few of the crews had their training manuals on them. The American tanks are called the M4 Sherman. I suggest the captured American panzers be split up and placed on defensive duties guarding the Tigers. We have so few Tiger's it might be wise making sure they survive in case this general is holding back a few surprises. I would not be surprised if they had English Churchill's on them."_

 _"Hoch was right to call them basic. Thing is the launcher is battery powered. They will be only good to us for a short while."_

 _"They have these neat little four man light trucks. Jeeps according to those we captured, armed with thirty calibre Browning Machine Guns. They are a decent support platform for the troops. Buy the infantry team's time to set up the MG-42's."_

 _"Hoch… are you there?"_

The question posed by Hauptmann Mann had been a good one. The battle, now into its thirteenth hour had left Joachim Hoch in a near ethereal state, wandering from position to position, screaming over a radio and wondering how in the hell he had managed to advance a kilometre, inflicting thousands of casualties on an enemy vastly superior to him in every possible way but experience. They had advanced so far that he now held three city blocks under his control.

His temporary headquarters had been set up in an estate home held by some wealthy Dutch landowners. The family, probably overjoyed to house the Americans for a brief time must have quickly changed their opinions the moment the _'Liberators'_ had been forced to run, leaving the family now playing host to the Command section of the home. Joachim knew little in the way of Dutch. He only ever spent a short time there before being transferred to break the French border. The family did however speak English. This bridged the language gap.

Judging from the amount of wealth this home had, untouched by the artillery, he imagined that the family serving his officers early morning breakfast and feeding the infantry everything else in their pantry must have been a despicable action. Their protests fell on deaf ears. This land was unofficially quarian soil now he simply did not care.

 _Quarian soil._

It made Joachim pause when he realized that the quarians were already using his countrymen as proxy soldiers to acquire a homeland. Sighing, he raised his empty coffee cup over his head.

" _Fille… Coffee,"_ he ordered, waving his cup back and forth.

The woman did not respond. Oh, he knew she knew what he was saying. She was pretending to be as deaf mute.

" _Coffee,_ " he repeated, his chemically destabilized mind now starting to get the better of his patience.

Again she ignored him.

" _ **YOU**_!" he suddenly shrieked, making the woman jump, her eyes darted to him.

 _ **"YES, YOU WITH THE POT IN YOUR HAND, I WANT MORE COFFEE!"**_ He continued to spit at the woman. **"C-O-F-F-E-E, POUR ME A CUP! YOU INSUFFERABLE PIG FACED CUNT! WIPE THAT MONGOLOID EXPRESSION OFF YOUR FACE AND DO WHAT YOU ARE TOLD!"**

In a flash the woman, whom he never met before in his life listened to him. With trembling hands she refreshed his drink. Hoch stared up at her. Ignoring the feeling he might have been a bit rough on her. Tears in her eyes, she glared hatefully into Hoch's face and retreated back into the corner of the room.

 _The Dutch have stubborn personalities that hide an inferiority complex. Loud words and strength to back it up usually forces them back into subservience._

These were words taught to him by Gerald Langer, private lessons about the nationalities across Europe. For the most part they appeared to work. Of course in this case it could have simply been fear of the invader, fried on medical Methamphetamine.

"And what have we learned today _Frau_? Silence is golden, but listening to orders is divine. Thank you, kindly," he murmured sardonically before turning back his men.

"Prepare for the attack. I want the Panzer III's supporting the STuG's. Every building comes down. No exception," Hoch commanded finally. "Infantry will follow the Sherman's, Tigers and Panzer IV's. Panthers will move together in a pack around the outskirts of the town, if they attempt a withdrawal we'll position the Panthers to pick off their retreat and force them to take shelter, or chase them if they attempt a breakthrough… Grab your plates."

Before many of the men could react, Hoch slid his chair back, emitting a sharp screech against the stone floor. With a resounding kick, Hoch broke the kitchen table leg, smashing the plates and food as the table collapsed. The men flew from their seats, all of them staring at the unfazed Hoch, who finished his cup of coffee and dropped it.

Ignoring the sudden screaming, Hoch collected the broken leg of the table and the dirtied white linen. Idly he tore a long unstained white strip from the table cloth and went to work fastening the edges to the leg. The screaming of the woman continued, so loud that the door to the kitchen burst open and the woman's husband burst into the room. He stormed through the officers and went to his wife, who looked close to attacking Hoch for what he had done.

"Ahhh… Herr Hoch?" Hertzer called out, he looked close to laughing, but he forced all humour to remain buried.

Twitching slightly as he finished fixing his improvised flag, Joachim finally turned his focus on his gathered Commanders, Hoch finally stood up and wandered to the nearest window and glanced out at the stable out back. He tilted his head as he noticed several equine comingling with the gathering of some of his men.

"I think I shall be borrowing the horse," he called to the husband and wife. Ignoring their protests shouted out at them in Dutch, he turned to Helmut and added. "Mann, I would like to borrow your coat."

Mann pulled off his jacket and handed it to his Commander. Pulling it over him and taking off his Waffen-SS cap, and placing it on Hertzer's head. He buttoned the jacket up and wordlessly left the kitchen to the screaming married couple, his men in tow.

"So many are dead or dying," he informed them as they headed out to the stable. "They should know that we're not going to let them run. We've lost more men than I wanted to lose, I imagine the American commander feels the same. Why die over some damn town? Let's see if we can use our words."

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

The silence was eerie.

Artillery had been hitting them every half an hour in ten minute barrages. The latest barrage was fifteen minutes overdue. Meaning the Krauts had run out of shells, or that something was in the air; something big. The Germans were moving into the breach, followed their artillery in a fashion not dissimilar to the first war.

Whatever the case, it gave Ward enough time to tour the makeshift aid stations where the wounded were triaged. It left him numb as to how many of his good brave boys had been wounded and how many more had been killed in the ferocious counterattack the Germans had hit them with.

Heads were going to roll for this disaster, probably his as well. Sure, he was following an order, which on paper made sense; the plan simply did not count on this. He would not blame anyone for this. Not the flyboys, not even Fredendall, who ordered him down here in the first place. He should not have made assumptions and now five thousand men were dead because of it.

The honking of a Jeep's horn caught his attention. Driving the vehicle was Major Ernest Walker, his supply coordinator. A somewhat heavyset man, He looked almost out of breath as he pulled up to the General and snapped a salute.

"Sir, you better come look at this…" Major Gregory Walker called out.

The General nodded and climbed into Walker's Jeep. The Major took off with him, driving him carefully through the blasted streets, saluting the men as he passed them by, and ignored the guilty pang in his gut as civilians caught in the crossfire screamed and cried at the utter devastation and death that the krauts had rained down upon them all.

Coming to a stop behind a .50 calibre gun position, Ward immediately realized the issue that Walker wanted him to be aware of. There, on a Dutch Warmblood sat quite possibly the largest German Officer he had ever seen in his life. Well, the only German officer he had seen before anyway. One hand gripped the reigns of the horse, the other, carrying a makeshift truce flag.

He was scanning the infantry carefully until his eyes fell on to Wards. The German immediately knew who the newest presence was. Shaking the feeling that something was wrong, he turned to a Captain approaching his car. He saluted ward briefly before gesturing to the Kraut.

"We found him trotting into town, like he was going for a morning ride; he asked to see you," Captain Marcus Rothman added. "Been goading him into saying something else… quiet bastard."

Nodding to his two subordinates, General Ward climbed from out of his jeep and stood there next to the hundreds of soldiers in the open, and the thousands watching from the garrison. This fact did not seem to faze the Envoy, who remained mounted on his animal.

 _"On behalf of my Commander, Obersturmbannführer Joachim Hoch, I am to offer you a chance to spare yours and our men from further bloodshed!"_ the German spoke, his English exceptionally spoken _. "We are asking for your surrender inside the hour."_

Surrender. There had been a word that Ward wanted to never here, especially in front of his battle weary. To hear this coming from a horse riding Nazi bastard only made it that much worse.

"You'll find that he's not an unreasonable man," the German announced once more. "In return for your surrender, your wounded will be sent back to your origin point in Oran, the rest of you will be placed in Prisoner Of War camps in Italy, he personally will see to it. This is a very generous offer, Herr General. I implore that you take it."

The German fell back into silence, leaving his offer hanging in the mind of the men gathered. Orlando rubbed his forehead. For a plea of surrender, it was a rather generous one. Perhaps it was a buff, perhaps his boys damaged them badly enough that they were resorting to tricking their adversary into surrendering.

No… as tempting as the offer was, he wasn't going to take it. He might not have had much in the way of offensive capability left at his disposal, but Oran was a few hundred miles away. A longshot dash back to Fredendall was still possible.

There would be no surrender. Not now. Ward looked away from the German and turned to Rothman.

"Give him an answer, Captain Rothman, Ward spoke finally. "I'd rather not address this Nazi."

The Jewish-American Captain, a man built like a linebacker nodded his head with a slight grin and stepped back out past the line to go and handle the German still high on his horse, both metaphorically and physically.

"You come across the line to offer _us_ a chance to surrender?" Rothman repeated, his voice high and dramatic for all of the boys watching the scene unfold. "Well listen to me you _cabbage eating, Jew hating, Horse riding, backwards fucking Teutonic piece of pig shit, who probably fuck your sister if you weren't killing innocent people_. You can take that flag and shove up your ass, you scummy, overgrown Nazi fuckhead!"

Rothman took a deep breath and took in the roaring approval of the Infantry.

"In case you're retarded, I'll make things clear! There is no way in hell we're going to surrender to you!" Rothman concluded. "Now go _**fuck**_ yourself, you dumb _Goy_ motherfucker!"

The division exploded with laughter at the words and at the lone German. Despite the rather colourful language, even Ward had to chuckle. At least he did until he noticed the expression on the German's face. There had been no reaction to the call out in the slightest.

From here, he could see the German lean forward, his fingers motioning for Rothman to come closer. Smirking, Rothman stepped forward. The German leaned closer and whispered something only audible to Jewish-American Captain. Whatever it had been, wiped the smile off his face.

Apparently satisfied, the German pulled back, his head turned up in the direction of the General. The German nodded slightly and pulled his horse and to take it back to where he came from. Leaving Rothman standing there for a moment before he turn back to join the General.

"Well?" Ward asked the Captain as he joined the General.

"He said his Commander would meet you in in a few short hours…" Rothman spoke, slightly dazed as he added, "he… uh… he said he would find me and personally put a bullet in my head... I'm not one to be scared sir, but something about him makes me think he's not just making a threat."

Ward reached out and patted the younger man on the shoulder reassuringly.

"We'll have to make sure that it doesn't happen, son," Ward promised him before turning to Major Walker, adding. "Prepare for a withdrawal. Rothman's words are inspiring, but it won't be enough. Besides, I don't want to have a conversation with Rommel, not as a prisoner anyways."

The officers rang a chorus of _'yes sir'_ and went to work preparing the withdrawal back to the safety of Oran.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

It was a half an hour of tension. Kicking the dirt hard, Heinrich Fuhrmann sighed.

He should have gone with the Obersturmbannführer. He was his guard detail. Why in the hell didn't Hoch consult him in these sorts of seemingly random acts?

Oh, Fuhrmann wasn't a stupid man. Whether he was willing to admit it or not, Joachim Hoch was in a state of terrified fear. Fear of failure, fear of success, fear for the alien… well… woman he loved. How he could endure such a… well… such a terrible woman was unbelievable.

To say that there was no love lost between him and the alien was an understatement. First she killed her friends, then deceived Hoch and him into going on an adventure that ended up losing Hoch an arm, and him getting shot to pieces, now she had the nerve to treat his new wife like a verbal punching bag.

Why would Hoch submit himself to her? Well he was in no real position to judge. Hoch wasn't a simple man. If half of what Helena had told him was true, then the Obersturmbannführer was likely to be holding to a hell of a lot of issues.

As though on cue, a man on horseback came around the ruins of what appeared to be a bank. The animal slowed from a gallop to a trot as he approached the improvised line they had set up in his absence. Fuhrmann breathed a sigh of relief, the last thing he wanted to do was in form the Father-In-Law Hoch had been killed on his watch.

Hoch looked troubled as he climbed off the equine and gave it a resounding slap on its flank, spooking the mare into running off in the opposite direction. Joachim took off his borrowed Heer jacket and finally he looked up to the men gathered around Peiper, all of them waiting for an update.

The disgusted expression silently answered the unspoken question. Fuhrmann glanced back to his squad nervously before turning back to Hoch, who was swallowing two methamphetamine tablets dry.

"Get on the line with Cutri," was all Hoch had to say on his failed expedition. "Flatten Bouïra."

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

Three hours of artillery fire more than flattened the small town.

Although the buildings had been destroyed, it did not waver the valiant defense. It left him thinking this battle had quickly become a miniaturized version of the hell he endured in Stalingrad.

"Dammit Tatiyana, hurry up!"

Firing his MP-40 on a rifle squad that had taken the lull of MG-42 fire to push several feet closer, Christian Bohr pegged one of the soldiers in the arm and forced the other to duck down. He could hear their screaming through the artillery whizzing overhead and the rumbling of panzers moving through the broken streets around him, hunting their American counterparts.

Three hours into the renewed offensive and they had been fighting the Americans in a running battle to the south western sector of the city. It was a strange fight. The Americans were unpredictable. Some would fall back; some would stand their ground, some, such as the men shooting at him at the moment were only interested in advancing.

Bohr had to admit, they were a neat lot, all things together. Perhaps after the war was over, he might wander on over to their continent for a visit. However, at this moment he was ordered to shoot down any American he saw; And like a good German soldier, he did what he was told.

"Tatiyana?" he called. "Tatiyana, I need that gun up."

Tatiyana did not respond as she continued to work on his Machine Gun. Muttering under his breath, He stood up and fired open the American position. They had bolted out of the street and into a ransacked, bombed out townhouse.

He continued to fire on them until his eyes widened at the sound of whizzing coming to him instead of away from him. He ducked back behind the cover as an American light mortar round fell a dozen metres from him, all of his body weight landed on top of the much smaller Tatiyana. She did not make a sound.

"Barrel changed," she said, touching the machine gun lying at her side. "The hammer was bent, I took it out and straightened it the best I could. I am sorry it took so long."

Another round of mortar fire fell. It did not faze him the slightest as he looked into her dark, inquiring eyes. Breathing a low, shuddering breath, Bohr leaned forward, his eyes closing as he pressed his lips against hers, an action that was returned, her mouth parting his for only a brief moment to allow the tip of her tongue to touch his.

Bohr pulled back to look at the woman, her expression was that of a bemused half smile at the surreal moment shared between two –in the middle of mortal danger. Exhaling as he chuckled weakly, Bohr grabbed his machine gun.

"Thank you, beautiful..." was all he could manage to say. "Let's move."

High over their heads they did not notice the buzzing sound.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

 _ **"HOCH, STUKA'S AND 109'S! ROMMEL DELIEVERED, HE ACTUALLY DELIVERED!"**_

Looking up to where Peiper was excitedly was pointing to; Joachim could not help but grin at the sight of the Luftwaffe finally providing him aerial support in the form of ground attack bombers and fighter planes. Even if it was only for a brief moment before they went back to Tunis or wherever. Well, he would not complain about air cover as a Stuka dived at a running Sherman tank.

Air cover that had probably came at the cost of Hanala blood.

"It took them long enough..." he shouted over the screaming siren of another Stuka in a dive towards the American potions. He grabbed the radio an ordered. "Cutri, I want artillery fire directed on what appears to be City Hall, Position G-13 on your maps."

In under a minute, the building he was ordering a firing position on exploded, kicking smoke, rock and concrete up into the air. Joachim and his guard ducked back under cover. He turned to his radio receiver and contacted his officers.

"City Hall is neutralized, but we have tanks in the courtyard," he stated to them. "Hertzer, push the Tiger's into attack formation. If this group isn't destroyed before I gather the Spearhead, consider yourself relieved.

Hertzer growled on the other line, clearly not a fan of being placed under a rookie's command.

"Yes, Herr Hoch!"

Motors caught Hoch attention, there approaching his position was a dozen odd Italian light trucks and tanks. The vehicles came to a dead stop and out pours dozens and dozens of the most elaborately dressed Italian infantry he had ever scene. They looked like swashbucklers from the old serials, their helmets draping long Cock feathers.

The leader approached them, making Hoch feel under dressed without his jacket on. It was a rare occurrence to find a man better dressed then a Waffen-SS officer. Then again, the Italian wasn't covered in oil stains and quarian blood.

"Primo Captaino Girardi, 7 Reggimento Bersaglieri," the extravagant Italian announced to the German commander. "My company and I have been attached to your Battalion by order of Herr Rommel. The main body of the Bitossi's advance will be here in minutes. Tell me, how is the situation?"

His hands on his hips, Hoch shared a looked with Peiper, who grinned somewhat sceptically at the Italian elite soldier. Silently, Hoch exchanged salutes with the man.

"They're down to quarter of division strength," Hoch informed the Italian. "It looks like they're wavering. One final thrust and they'll likely become combat ineffective. Whether that affects surrender remains to be seen."

The Italian soldier nodded his head, his hand flying back to the rest of his Company.

"Please, allow us the honour to spearhead this final effort, Herr Hoch," Girardi requested. "Your men have done so much. It's the least we can do."

Without a moment's hesitation, Hoch nodded to the request. Anything to spare German lives from the initial attack.

With a wide, grin, the Primo Captaino turned away and sent the orders in Italian. The men shouted out in approval as they followed Hertzer's Tiger detachment into the town square.

That was that. Two hours later and more men dying for a futile resistance, the American command staff ordered the white flag to be waved high above the Stars and Stripes.

The Battle of Aguni Lahwa and Bouïra had at long last ended.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

Wincing as the medic pulled a small chunk of brick from out of the skin covering his forehead. General Orlando Ward bowed his head, dismissing his medic to tend to the wounded while the ceasefire held.

He could not comprehend this. His armoured division, the 1st Armoured Division, the goddamn pride of the United States Army had been reduced to a shadow of its former self by the ferocious attack and chipping away by two small units that pinned him in the town that he took a stand in. Estimates of seven to ten thousand dead…

Ten thousand dead… how could it be?

How could he have failed his men so _terribly_?

He tried to break out built by the time his men had organized a push out; an Italian Armoured Battalion had shown up and broke up the breakthrough. Between them pushing from the North, The Germans moving house to house, killing everything they saw and the arrival of total Luftwaffe air superiority, the sound of the Stuka sirens still ringing his head, more scarring than the actual bombings they attacked with…. By then he knew it was all over.

"Sir, they're outside the door," Rothman called out as he took his place behind his General. Ward nodded, dabbing the blood from off his lips. Their pistols were in hands. Prepared to be used as a final stand if nesscessary.

The door to his office opened, forcing everyone attention to the new occupant standing there, the Nazi commander who had dealt him this blow. His eyes were like sharp as he stared directly into Ward's direction.

Smirking slightly, the man, no more taller than he stepped forward, his hand reaching up to remove his cap, his hand slicking back through his hair as he stood before the Americans.

Behind him came more boots, in stepped two regular German officers, causing the General to breathe a sigh in relief. Trailing them was the massive looking brute of a soldier that tried to bargain a surrender only hours ago, an exotic rifle slung low as his expression sneered nothing less than utter arrogance and contempt for having to stand here. Like the well-dressed man heading the delegation, he too wore the rune markings of the SS.

Silence remained between the two parties for several long moments. The German Command simply stood there. He looked unimpressed with the state the General was in. Finally, Ward decided enough was enough. He turned his staring eyes to the rifle wielding German.

"So… you two are genuine Nazi. Not just Germans, but actual, genuine Nazi swine," Ward spoke directly to the German translator. "Tell your commander that we want the same deal as before."

The Nazi handed his rifle over to the man on his right.

"He's not going to offer you the same deal as before, Herr General," the younger man stated.

Ward blinked.

"He's not going to offer it to you because the Kampfgruppe that destroyed your Division is named Hoch, not Peiper," the English speaking German pressed on.

The bruiser diplomat stepped past the well-dressed man, presumably named Peiper and stood there, leaning his hands on the desk.

"My name is Obersturmbannführer Joachim Hoch; I am by your standards a Lieutenant Colonel. I am the Commandant of the 438th Mechanized Infantry, Kampfgruppe Hoch."

The German named Hoch pulled back slightly and offered his hand to the General. Ward stared at it for amount, before his own hands fell flat on the table. He would not shake this Nazis' hand.

Noticing the defiance, the Lieutenant Colonel allowed a leer to cross his expression. He probably wasn't a man use to not getting what he wanted.

"I am to oversee the facilitation of your surrender on behalf of my bosses, Generaloberest Heinz Guderian, and indirectly, his superior, Generalfeldmarschall Erwin Rommel," the German named Hoch spoke to him, his voice bored. "Please spare me the melodramatics - that you would rather die than surrender to the likes of me - this is better than you deserve."

" _Better then I deserve_?" Ward repeated.

Joachim Hoch nodded his head.

"If it were up to me, I would have you lined up against a wall, before what remains of your men and have you executed for gross incompetence and abuse of command," the younger soldier growled down at the General. "You _**forced**_ our men to endure an additional half a day of needless bloodshed… and for what exactly? Was it to spite both myself and my generous offer? I have shot men for lesser things; Friend and foe alike."

Snorting, Hoch pulled himself back.

"Fortunately I answer to better men then myself. Men who seem to think your life is worth more than a bullet in your forehead," Hoch continued, turning away to join his officers.

Hoch remained silent as he stood silently with his subordinates. He seemed to have been passing some sort of unspoken judgement on the General and his staff.

"The terms of surrender are as followed: Any man not seriously wounded is to become a prisoner of war. Any man wounded significantly will be sent back to Oran. I simply do not have the resources to treat so many," Hoch said, earning a low mumble from Ward's staff. Hoch's eyes turned to Rothman for a moment, adding. "Any Jews in your division will be sent back to Oran as drivers. They will stay as well to handle any burial detail or however you would like your dead to be dealt wit-"

 _"You don't want Jews? What a surprise..."_ Rothman suddenly called out, cutting through the offer made.

Hoch froze in place. He stared at Rothman for a good long moment, his expression one of clear hatred. Then something peculiar happened.

Hoch laughed.

It wasn't just a chuckle, it was a full blown belly laugh coming from a man who looked like he probably shot and killed children at one point or another. It was easily the most frightening thing Ward had seen in quite some time.

"I… I'm sparing you from my promise to kill you and keep you out of a prison camp, and still you complain?" Hoch spoke disbelievingly, still grinning as the laughter died. He turned back to Ward, adding "On second thought, the good Captain will join the rest of the men in the prison camp and serve time on behalf of all the other Jews of your division."

Hoch steeped forward and closed the gap between Rothman and himself. He leaned forward, a smirk on his face.

"Do you not hate it when a ' _Goy Motherfucker'_ such as I holds all the cards, Herr Captain?" Joachim Hoch taunted the Captain before turning to the officer on his right; he switched to German, saying, _"Mann, Nehmen Sie ihn weg_."

The German in a Heer uniform nodded and stepped forward, grabbing Rothman by the scruff of his uniform and pulling the man out of the office, presumably to place him with the rest of the captured boys. Hoch stood there, amused at the act. Sighing, he turned back to Ward.

"So… shall we inform the men?" The young Nazi bastard inquired. "Or shall we continue to pretend you still hold any authority?"

Ward reluctantly chose the former of the two.

 **...**

* * *

 **…**

 _\- Joachim_

 _Hanala's just out of surgery. She's going to be fine but they have placed her into a medically induced coma for the time being. Eighteen shrapnel wounds and several projectiles have been pulled out; her burn injuries are on the mend as well._

 _I was in contact with Lene and Gerald Langer before I contacted you. I realize how much being meddled with has become a large annoyance. I will survive your wrath. They have told me you would likely be feeling rather guilty for this incident. Know that neither I nor Alaan hold any blame for you. Hanala is a reckless young woman. This incident will save her in the long run. She will be much more careful now. Do yourself a great service and try not to burden yourself with guilt. She would not want that, we do not want that._

 _Contact me when you are ready. I shall relay whatever needs to be said to her until your timely arrival back to the fleet. Congratulations on your victory. You will have undoubtedly made Hanala proud._

 _Keelah Se'lai,_

 _Galina'Jarva_

Closing his omni-tool, Joachim pounded back the bottle of captured American whiskey and sighed, his head resting against the steel siding. Hanala was going to make it; at least that was what it looked like.

Peiper was right. He should not have permitted Hanala's presence to this conflict. It was one thing that she lured him into the desert almost a year ago; it was quite another thing that he allowed her to join him at the front, in an actual combat role. By no means did he think of her as a weak soldier. She was talented, undoubtedly.

It was however something that emotionally compromised him. He did not plan on this attack. He only wanted to bleed the Division. He did not intend on engaging in a running battle that cost two hundred and thirty one of his men's lives.

But it was over and done with now. He had gotten lucky, exceptionally lucky. By all accounts he should have been killed half a dozen times. But here he was, drinking a bottle of 1937 Jack Daniels and listening to a record player that had been spewing out degenerate jazz music.

He had won a resounding victory. It still left him feeling like shit. Without Hanala there, his external conscience, he was simply numb to what he had done.

Sighing, he clambered out of the Hanomag. He stumbled in place for a moment and immediately took notice to Hertzer and his had parked Sigrid II next to an American supply truck. They were sitting inside vehicle, testing out the American rations and smoking American cigarettes. What made the situation more amusing were the fifteen or so American prisoners assigned to them. All of them were glaring at the armed men eating their food, reading their material, smoking their cigarettes and laughing.

Suddenly Hertzer spat the mouthful of what appeared to be bread out on the men. He ignored the violent shouts of the Americans as he casted his angry expression at them.

"My God this is supposed to be bread?" he roared out as though he had been personally offended. "What do you idiots use? Sugar and cake batter instead of flour? _**BREAD ISN'T SUPPOSE TO LOOK AND TASTE LIKE CAKE**_!"

"I doubt they can understand, Dieter," Hoch called out, catching there attention and making Hertzer smile widely.

"Oh, _they_ understand," Hertzer shot back to his leader. "A nation could go fat on this white bread. How retarded... Herr Hoch, have a drink. I took it off a Major. He gave me lip; I showed him just how easily a man could accidentally end up underneath Sigrid's tracks..."

Joachim's eyes widened at Hertzer.

Hertzer grinned and shrugged.

"Purely hypothetical of course…" the panzer man assured his boss.

Looking at the bottle of gin, Hoch shrugged. Deciding he earned another drink, he stepped through the Americans, kicking one man out of his path as he took the bottle and helped himself to a mouthful.

"Huh…" mumbled Rolf, the scar faced radioman suddenly, his eyes buried deep in some reading material. "This Batman appears to be in a romantic relationship with a teenaged boy. I knew Americans were decadent, but I did not think they would flaunt it so openly."

Hertzer laughed at the observation, his mouth full of canned fruit.

" _Faggots_?" He taunted the Americans in rough English, his finger jabbing the comic book violently. " _You faggots_?"

Joachim was about to laugh when a sudden blinding flash caught him off guard. Blinking as his vision came back to him, he found a man in his mid-twenties standing there with a camera in his hands. Joachim reacted by drawing his Walther from his holster and levelled it at the offender.

"Don't you dare move," he warned the camera man.

Noticing that their Obersturmbannführer was drawing a pistol on someone, several passing by infantry rushed the camera wielding man, hitting the man so far he collapsed. The two soldiers held their rifles at his chest, both of them looking to their commander.

"Herr Obersturmbannführer, are you alright?!" one of them, An Unteroffizier, called out to him. Hoch nodded silently as he joined them as he too loomed over the man, his hand outstretched as his eyes darted from face to face.

"Why are you taking my picture?" Hoch demanded to know of the American, the pistol in his hand wavering from coming down from the meth and the liquor flowing through his veins.

"My name is C-Charles Foster…" The man introduced himself, understandably shaky from three guns pointing at him. "I work with _Life_ … it's a m-magazine. I was attached to the Old Ironsides for the landing in… in Oran."

Hoch considered what he said. Deciding this Foster was in no position to lie to him; he holstered his pistol and silently ordered the soldiers back. They obliged, raising their weapons off the man and went back to their patrol, leaving Hoch standing alone with the sprawled out American, who was pulling himself back out of the dirt.

"You are a propagandist, I suppose?" Hoch guessed, turning away from the man.

"No sir, I'm a reporter," Foster spoke as he dusted himself off. "You know what a reporter is, right? It's the trade the Nazis destroyed as soon as they came to power, than replaced them with propagandists?"

Chuckling slightly at the statement, Hoch turned back to the reporter.

"There isn't much of a difference between a reporter and a propagandist, especially when he's sent to report the war," he retorted, crossing his arms as he stared the American dead in the eye. "You are clever. I am not a fan of clever. What makes you think I will not just shoot right here, right now?"

There was a brief flash of worry in the American's face, it quickly vanished however.

"Because you aren't that sort of person, at least you're trying not to be..." Foster spoke, trying to sound confident. "I mean, you personally offered the surrender. You took a huge risk in doing so."

Joachim shrugged idly, sniffing as he scratched the back of his neck. Yes, he tried to operate with restraint.

"Methamphetamines are a hell of a fear deterrent, though it may be in your best interest to omit that..." he said dismissively. "What do you want?"

Laughing slightly at the words of the German, the American war correspondent reached out and latched his arm onto Joachim's, earning a slight glare from the much taller Northern German.

"I want an interview, Commander," Foster spoke plainly as he led the Obersturmbannführer away from the suspicious Hertzer and his crew. "I want the readers at home to know the enemy we face. There are a lot of chicken hawks at home demonizing the Nazis. It's understandable why they do it, but not only are they demonizing, they're saying the Nazi war machine is incompetent…"

Foster paused as he glanced around at the wholesale destruction the town occurred, the amount of dead being gathered.

"What happened here, they need to understand the fight will not be an easy one."

Hoch raised his eyebrow slightly.

"I realize that you are playing on my sense of nationalism, but I can assure you that I would rather them think of us as stupid oafs, Herr Charles," the Obersturmbannführer pointed out. "I would rather have them delude themselves into believing that this was a fluke."

"Sir, I know you don't like what happened here. What happened here was ignorance and overconfidence," the reporter argued. "You can prevent unnecessary deaths. Granted, they are Allied men you'll be helping. Besides, what better way to raise your personality? I swear on my Mother and Father's lives I won't belittle you. I pride myself on being a fair man."

Hoch had to admit it; he had guts for staking his parents' lives in the hands of a man like him.

"An idealistic reporter, how quaint… thank you for the guarantee that would spare me from hunting your parents down and extracting a terrible revenge like the godless Hun that I am," the German mocked, watching Foster go sheet white.

Sighing, he glanced to his wrist watch. What the hell, he was going to become a traitor in a matter of months; he might as get good at it.

"I have two hours to spare..." he said, watching the American nearly grin in excitement. "Come, I know a Dutch family who would be delighted to serve us some Lunch. Conqueror's privilege, I suppose."

Together, the two men wandered back in the direction of his temporary headquarters, naturally, followed by Heinrich Fuhrmann and his squad.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

 _This is an automated recording on loop. This is Admiral Alaan'Jarva vas Idenna, Commanding Officer of the Heavy Fleet. Directive Seven has been activated as we have previously warned in the past few weeks. In seventy two hours galactic standard time, all quarians citizenry who have not reported back to the fleet as ordered will be automatically charged and filed under fleet exiles. All rights and privileges to the fleet will be immediately and permanently cut off. Family on the fleet will be no longer in contact, no military or civilian aid will be provided to any settlements should conflict arise._

 _Should you be willing to return, hail the Idenna through the Extranet. They shall provide the rallying point in which the Idenna and the Tonbay are stationed. If transportation is an issue, then special exceptions to the deadline can be made so long as you contact the Idenna inside this brief window of opportunity. We do not do this lightly; our actions are to provide a future for our race. I beg of you still out of the fleet to return and join us. Our threats are not to be taken lightly._

 _We await your decision, Keelah Se'lai, Admiral Jarva signing off._

" _Father_?"

Balao'Yegar closed the extranet connection and turned back to the gathering of men, women and children in the crowd. His eyes fell on his wife and son standing out in the crowd gathered around the communication device. They both appeared worried by the message the authoritarian fleet had sent to spread fear and discontent amongst the Citadel community.

As a voice of reason to a small community divided over their loyalty to the rest of the race, he would not listen to the warnings offered. Not when the track record showed just how expendable the dwindling quarian population was to the Admirals of the past. At least back then they flat out stated they were preparing for an offensive. This time around, nothing short of absolute silence came from the leadership. Whatever they had planned, it was less than ethical.

"Perhaps they are right," a woman spoke out, invisible in the crowd. "Perhaps the fleet will not be so rash this time around. Perhaps we have settled a new world at long last."

"You know that is false," Yegar retorted. "You saw the way the Admiral and the child of the Admiral spoke to us. They sounded like they were planning another damn war. We know that the admiralty has been stockpiling on a wide variety of ships and armaments. Are we going to fool for the same lies for a third time? Are we going to sacrifice our children for some ancestor forsaken scheme they won't even speak publicly about?"

Low murmuring broke out amongst the gathering. Through it, a friend of his Handar'Geel broke through the crowd and stood next to Yegar's wife and son, both of them smiling slightly at his presence.

"Yegar, I'm not so sure about this. They didn't sound like they were lying to us," Geel spoke up. "They sent an Admiral and Jarva's daughter to warn us. I remember the last time this happened. They sent captains. Not the high leaders. They conscripted back then, this time they came with words. "

Still the utterance of thee gathered quarians grew louder.

 _"They seemed different. I remember when the first calls of return were ordered. They were all but militaristic that time."_

 _"The Admiral's daughter was a total bitch. I bet she is always like that."_

 _"The Admiral's daughter wasn't wearing a suit. Don't people on the fleet need suits?"_

 _"The Admiral's daughter was kind of hot. I'd go back if she asked me. I would destroy all her enemies."_

The low murmuring broke into fuming and laughter that observation by a somewhat loud mouthed teenaged boy. The only one not humoured was Yegar, who stared at the gathering with hidden contempt. How could they be this forgiven? So many dead, so many lies, yet these people would return to a leadership that didn't care about them.

"So that's it then," Yegar said, his voice low and almost mournful. "Abandon everything we worked for here for the sake of an automated message sent to us. They have lied to us time and time again. They said the geth would not turn, they covered up the geth intelligence, they allowed our race to be exiled in the first place, and then they waged three disastrous wars for a planet we will never, _NEVER_ get back."

Yegar snorted and spat on the ground.

"I will not force anyone to stay. Not even my family," he continued, shooting his eyes to his wife and son, both of them stunned at his words. "I… won't go back… If that makes me a traitor, for no longer believing what they say, then I will die happily a traitor. I am done with our people."

With nothing left to say, Balao'Yegar pushed through the gathering and headed home. It was better to live as a free man in a slum, then to die for nothing but a fantasy.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

Halid'Zorah felt sick to his stomach as he watched Alaan'Jarva pace back and forth the floor of the medical freighter _Blue Rose_ , a former asari colony ship.

As a Father himself, Halid could not possibly comprehend the amount of worry, fear and regret Alaan must have been feeling since they brought Hanala on board for extensive surgeries. She was in a terrible state. Shot up, heavily burnt, a breathing tube down her throat and covered in heavy, blood soaked human bandaging, probably applied sloppily by Hoch… the very same Hoch who was probably in a state of depression and fear at the moment as he conducted his first contact war with the Americans. It was likely he considered Hanala the only person he would have left after the revolution commenced.

It took over thirteen Earth hours before the Physicians could stabilize her. It gave Alaan more than enough time to find every possible avenue in which Alaan could find things to blame for himself. Primarily he took the blame for not providing Rommel with more support. For not given the man more tanks, for allowing Captain Yagar'Haevjar vas Compassionate Action time to convert the ME-262 into a limited orbital drop and return fighter bomber.

Perhaps this injury would serve a purpose. Perhaps now Alaan would stop holding back, it was in Halid's opinion he was punishing the conspiracy for allowing the Nazis to take hold in the first place. Not anymore. Punishment would have to wait until after a foothold on Earth was made.

The door opened Alaan paused briefly to make sure it wasn't his wife. The last thing he wanted was to show her that he was scared. It wasn't Galina. It was a young lieutenant under Zorah's personal command. A surveyor by trade, Zorah had sent him to watch the developments of the Western Hemisphere, Canada and the United States most notably.

Why he was here was beyond Zorah's understanding. He usually filed his reports on a weekly basis.

"Lieutenant Gerrel, something to report?" Zorah inquired, standing up and moving past Alaan to join the lieutenant.

The lieutenant nodded his head gravely.

"You wanted me to report any sort of anomaly?" Gerrel said. Waiting for a nod from Zorah, he added. "I think I'm afraid that I have indeed found one.

Gerrel raised his omni-tool to reveal a large scale replica of the Earth. Quietly the surveyor zoomed into the North American region and then he zoomed further into the Pacific Northwest, and then zoomed in closer to small state nestled on the Canadian/United States border.

"This region is known as Hanford, Washington," the lieutenant informed his Admirals as he zoomed in on a small region in the south east of the state. "Hanford is located in in the north-western sector of the United States. The area has been relatively unimportant until recently. They have begun construction on a large scale facility out of the way from the major population centres of the state."

The map zoomed in closer from the region map, it zoomed into the region closer and closer until the display showed construction occurring, heavily guarded by hundreds of military units.

"We weren't asking for more production reports," a voice belonging to Alaan called out, apparently deciding to use Zorah's work as a means to distract himself from the thoughts of his child barely clinging to life.

Gerrel was unfazed by the annoyance. It only meant that he knew something his superiors didn't.

"That's what I thought as well until the spy drones caught this."

He closed the live feed and turned their attention to an archived video feed. There on the screen was dozens of cargo trucks parking inside the walls of the facility. Looking at how nervous Gerrel suddenly became, it left Zorah somewhat pensive.

"We performed a series of different spectral analysis," the lieutenant narrated over the video footage. "The trucks were carrying large convoy shipments of heavy water from across the Canadian border for stockpile in this facility."

All colour drained from Halid's expression. No… No this cannot be, he thought this civilization was a decade or two away from such a technological leap!

"Heavy water…" Zorah spoke weakly, shaking his head. "No, that can't be right."

"You can double check it if you want, Admiral Zorah. I triple checked it myself, and then checked it once again," Gerrel spoke, cutting through the foggy state of the stunned Admiral. "They are stockpiling heavy water and building a facility that is mostly isolated. All the signs are there."

"Those bastards…" Admiral Jarva breathed suddenly, leaning back into his seat, his eyes wide. "Those stupid bastards… they're developing weaponized nuclear technology!"

The statement was left hanging in the air. Gerrel seemed somewhat uncomfortable to see an Admiral usually so renown for patience and civility, driving up the wall by the actions of this younger race. Not that Gerrel could blame Jarva for it. Between his children clinging to life and these humans appeared to have had a wide suicidal streak in them. To say it was frightening was an understatement.

Halid took a seat just across from the brooding older man. For the first time since he was handed the assignment of handling the humans, he found himself completely over his head. Something had to be done about this. Perhaps they could organize that Skorzeny fellow to assault the facility and spook the Americans into forgetting their nuclear ambitious, at least for the short term.

Glancing at the facility, he shivered. Although it might have been in the early stages of development, the American production industry was untouchable to German bombs. This unfinished facility would be completed in weeks, months perhaps, a first step on the road to nuclear technology in the hands of an enemy power.

"Perhaps it's for energy purposes. Whatever the case is, the development is years off two, three years perhaps if they're at such a primitive stage," he muttered under his breath, a statement meant for himself that was picked up by Jarva and laughed at.

"You place too much blind faith in them, Zorah. You cannot assume the best in these people… look how it worked out for Admiral Calis. Now we have to spend the next thirty years cleaning the German image of genocide when it inevitably gets out," the Admiral warned his junior carefully. "Developing nuclear technology in the middle of a war means one thing and one thing only; these idiots are on the verge of developing atomic weaponry."

Slicking his hair back, Jarva stood from his seat and wandered his way to the door.

"Make a note of it and we'll address the future of nuclear development once we sit them all down."

Alaan paused for a moment, his lips tightening as though he was privately debating his next words.

"Gather the Generals," he continued on, his words no longer of anger, but in the capacity of the senior Admiral of the Migrant Fleet. "Inform them that the plans go into effect. It is two days from martial law being enacted. I want this bastard Hitler on the Kareon as our prisoner in a month's time. We have been in the shadows for long enough, Zorah."

Saluting Jarva alongside the Lieutenant, Halid'Zorah watched as Alaan'Jarva left the room, leaving Halid with a mountain of work to do. Work he was only too glad to get done after a year's hard labour.

Earth would soon be their home.

 **…**

* * *

 **…**

 **Story completed**

 **Changes: Clean up, added the scene I cut, and removed the epilogue to this story. There are too many spoilers in it for the people reading this for the first time (if they're out there.)**

 **Finally getting to the good stuff now.**

 **See you on the next story**


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